1570 c/o Fortunato Salazar


I pound on the southwest gate which feels strangely fluffy. In the dry season these paradoxes enchant and must be our equivalent of chic. I hammer on the spongy fluffy gate. Hammer hammer hammer.

Now CHICKEN, the dirty water cleaned out every day in the mess is connected to the hot sun in the same way that my helplessness to bring you through the gate is connected to the rumors that tomorrow will be more than a little like a bad head cold.

I'm a narcissist who laughs to train the soft and gentle heart of my opponent in passing.

I feel my way home while walking around a lot. I grow tired of standing upright. Ongoing daily fun ends after such a short time. I never sleep, except that now I've gone and done it.

CHICKEN, give way, I'm living it up on your incompetence.

Be very happy if you feel your body temperature thinking of you
and not just who among the temperature difference stopover crew
is the most fuckable in the temperature difference stopover row of cots.


I don't feel I'm having complications in my life, but I'd like to flick a switch and transform the hammer hammer hammer into falling shards of glass that will put a hurt here and there in a few broken love triangles.

CHICKEN, I haven't seen you from a great height or while loading my eye drops.

While holding my breath I've forgotten my promises. What are they doing in there, a quasi-finger stress test of tomorrow is a long-awaited shakedown at Echo Valley? Hammer hammer hammer hammer! I'm standing onstage to play my one alone tangled agent, and struggling with myself. I was taught how true it is that to listen is to listen to that which is always listening.


CHICKEN, CHICKEN, little repo pigeon, let's hammer hammer or do a night drunk on the beach.

Far away from the image of everyone holding hands to reduce their agitation,
everyone dispiritedly reminded of their strawberry-red aprons,
their short hair cut inaccurately in the dispirited agitation of the dry season,

let's you and I attach ourselves to the strength in your face! When I was little I spent 30 years collecting five cards expressive of such strength of face. Huh? Are you afraid? I'm different than I expected, CHICKEN, CHICKEN, little hometown trout in our net.


I feel eyes on me; no, it's only the crude chalk sketch of a blindfolded Annie Lennox.

Why is there no convenient folding escalator, even a stopped convenient folding escalator decorated with a folding yellow sign that reads, Elevator Out of Use, Please Use Escalator?

Hammering, I'm suffering from a greasy sweat flowing from my forehead.

To those I kick in the heart I'm sorry for the damage. I've always been the modest owner of eternal love, but a typical Cancer: there are two sides to every table.


Oh CHICKEN, you are shedding floating islands of ice cream in a garden of lost causes.

Gossip tends to jolt people into a rut.
Are you feeling the love that we here are feeling even more than the passage of time?

All we're missing are the white-spotted
chicken part separators to pry apart the black-spotted chicken part separators.

"A woman gave birth to a child who does not speak." So I say it's me. Instead of shouting out the password for the southwest gate, I hammer, hammer, hammer.