say there is a bible belt, then there must be a pubic patch
and within said pubic patch there is a bald spot, arid and desiccate
in its nature gridded veins pulsing pushes of cars through
bald by definition,
phoenix by mythology, a sprawling metropolitan rubbed on the ruins of a once great civilization, “you must not have been decided upon in the summer” burps the dust devil forming in the valley of diamondbacks, scorpions, sheriff joe, cacti and other lovers left erect by the devil himself.
it may be your move, but it’s my gun. power shifts with the roll of my Colt.
mini-malls make like fried eggs on asphalt late april through early september, multiplying relentlessly, growing with the rate of privacy and prejudice, no breathing things will ever be able to catch up.
just wait to find out about the Haboobs
track homes don’t run well, limping away from the bubble’s burst, leaving limbs dislocated and untreated, letting infection seep greens and ooze in every backyard’s swimming pool.
and when the heat sinks in, you stay inside.