sahara-jones

The ladies of the church gossiped about other women and talked about their no good dogs, clucking as they spoke and waving their hand-like wings and shaking their elaborated hat heads. The food was good at church—over-buttered grits, biscuits and scrambled eggs. Everything with jam. I sat underneath their table, eating a slice of crispy bacon, in a wicker hat and dress, white stockings and buckle shoes, cuffed up, from Payless. The metal collapsible legs and cardboard top made to look like real wood rattled and leaned when the ladies got up or sat down. I listened, while my mother searched for me in a side partition

I believe in dystrophic futures and robot carnage. No hope of escaping our (human) fat3. I welcome with open arms, bones, ligaments and tendons, lymph nodes, arteries, etcetera, bleached calcium and precious sinew, of descendants of upright apes. Etc. The Pacific lap$ up fume-agues rage of ballistic rockets, threatening we pay attention and continue complacent as we are.