Cannery lumber and a whole crankcase full of sparrows, and we’re off to the meadows of deceit once more. Copper to carry our voices. A wiretap in the glove box. Pewter and plastic in the dining room. Lived less rules to make more, a winning touch to majority’s loss, at last. Aches gone to crumbled tickets and tattered neckties and flattened pillows and thrashed willpower. Guess who’s still living through it? Often isn’t enough. It never was. Addicted to opioids and apps. For the distinctness of flavors or keys or clicks of the tongue. An H-Bomb over The Pacific, courtesy of some repugnant goon with a terrible haircut. This? This is just a test. Seeing through but never looking. A bunch of hooey, as we were, and still’s a tough place to move — from or on. Earthquakes and hurricanes with ordinary names, warming up to plagues upon the land. Corruption seeping in at the helm of power. Louder lies with truth’s sound. And now some piss-ant of a hacker has gone and stolen your identity. All the cars are driving themselves while your rent doubles and your income dwindles. Convenience rules the market as your savings are shared and gambled in dicey fits of attaining the-next-big-thing. Had about too much, right? Well, here’s not to you. Any opalescent thing, any crush that’ll never not do, any sandpiper stuck probing and pecking, deranged as ever again. The fennecs and shrikes have darted for other older haunts. Be uncommon and clear. The past, you know, it just never goes anywhere. In the densest of times, will you not be my almost-only one? Always unsatisfied, we scroll and like and swipe. “I’m all stowed-up feelings and valentines in July,” low and growling, another voice to not sing along with, to never quite get to know. Like this, or that, or whatever does or doesn’t come next. It seems I never do. But there’s always a call you could make before life comes to death: (646) 851–0347.