North of a hostile policymaking conflict the surviving descendants of Geronimo hoisted their demands upon their shoulders, lifting baskets and coffins filled with freedom-seeking unborn. Minute by minute, ounce by dripping ounce, the unborn competitively starve each other for their chance ahead of anyone else. Immortality gets complicated as fresh juices enter into the whispers of a frenzied, stillborn dog, its stiff tail punctuating an unmistakable tenseness among strangers you’ve invited into sanity’s last lockable closet. Formalities mix with unwanted alumni notifications, bursting into applause after hellish memories appease your thirst for drama. You missed your chance with ambulance-chasing, steering instead toward over-intellectualizing a can of soup, and scrutinizing a trusty screwdriver. You are told these behaviors are side-effects of having been misspelled throughout your youth. Even now you retaliate against the spitefulness of childhood singsongy taunts, anonymously calling strangers and leaving the messages on their answering services. How many have experienced, on your account, the unsettling mystery of a call from a stranger singing obscenities most foul to the tunes of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”, or the United States National Anthem? This is your payback? This is your wry soul wetting minds you know not to be dangerous, or provokable?