This is one of two poems that popped into my head as I was driving back from dropping off my children to school. I don’t often receive transmissions from the Great Signal when I’m driving; that usually happens when I’m just about to fall asleep, and I memorize the lines as best I can. For some reason, I was receptive this morning as I drove down the road and listen to sad folk music. It was a nice surprise.


She was tattooed, lubed, and ready to go.
He hailed from Cottonvale, was half-dead,
and dragged hell behind him with style.
Together, they made explosions no one noticed.

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