Harangued around by dashing collar,
bonafides de-fanged

with plastic tie, with warm confidence
men returning.

Receipt present, a cool reception
questionable, if iffy.

Hardly heard weakened strains
of ‘Tomorrow, Wendy’,

unlisted yet, still–motion, intravenous
bad precedent-suicide,

the dozing, dirty Santa Monica blonde,
whenever euphemized as Hades-

Gehenna crowned; The reel nicked up,
bits yellower, fractured bicuspid

returns mislaid to early dawn,


marketable, meatless, searingly perpetual,
headliner maquette


The New New American Low—.