R/ckets and S/ntries

today's calabash left for prison. soap intoned the hula hoop. we weren't lucky to pray, just right in the angel. each angel marks territory like spit. it's some kind of war, someone remarks. that's it exactly! and test tubes look jolly good next to Martha Stewart or who else. we must get tgether tonight and figure out a difference. do you relax when you fall?

later that same evening...

we looked coast to coast, and to elements of jam covered the telephone. surprise met us halfway. we began to talk. just think: I am not half the poet you are. I could go on. could you?