Levees break. Bellies burst. Eat your nectarines and soothe the pits with your tangy tongue. Pits are sulky, strident beasts, idling in earthless oil. We need them to guarantee our back pockets remain shaky, and taut. “It’s beyond my ken!” I explained with a non-answer, devolving a high-stakes verbal combat sequence into slobbery conversation. Heads cleared of their worms, which hustled in to a new era of relevance and magnitude. Worms for president, worms for breakfast, pools of worms to cushion the fall of hijacked grade school cheerleaders. “I NEED TO FIND A SENTENCE!” burst one especially suspicious worm, voiding the density of thickness with a single stroke of celebrity. STars changed shape, from Texas to Israel, then cuntless points for the flag of a warless nation. I let the spit win, the wit spin. Empresses strut past and all I can do is wink at myself. Water drowns my oasis of sand and putty. Grown of oblong incubators, I pillage sanctuaries decades before their discovery, before their rise to insignificance. An angry man bursts his belly, acclimating himself to cold embraces of crippled men demonstrating their physical limitations. All the toxins are there: foul language, needless vitriol, self-defeating braggadocio. “What I’m doing now is dead. I don’t want to rely on this.”