Along the Appian Way of my heart, ruthlessness sold by the bucket. Striding along some gray corridor, a robot hell bent on installing Christmas.exe on the server of my mind. Here in the heat that shimmies seductively for all to see, I focus my eyes on the little girl in the purple dress with the red lollipop, minding her business like it was paint drying. She huddles inside my name at night when the cold comes.

Your participation in this fun survey is mandatory. What color were the marbles you lost? Loss is a chainsaw convulsing in a mosh pit. Did you see your lover undress you with his eyes, his lashes gently willing your smocking dress down off your shoulders? Grief is a byproduct of death, and like all byproducts, corporate America can sell it to your children for nourishment. Do you see the orb eyed children drooling over processed abandonment? Submit your answers. Submit your name.