She’s spilling babies and shaking on the kitchen floor,nput her celibacy in a crayon boxnand forgot it in the cupboard.nnThis is her name in a briefcase.nThe potential catalognjust hides behind biased eyes,nbecause nothing really mattersnnas long as you’re a partisan.nThings will go your way,nWhen Jesus loves you as much as they say.nnI never cared a bit about the swing set,nbecause it never got its rust on me.nnHe’s a surrogate lover and pensive to the bone.nShe wears his pennies on her way to the phone tonbreathe more amnesia nfrom rolls of paper.nReality is fading, the high is elating, sedated again.nI’m proud to be on this island.nnShe’s just a whine-junky.nShe was saved when it was a trend.nShe was cliché before it was anything good.n