Skeletal Mayday noons. Cream spoils in conch shells set on satin-finish sills by Bunny Yeager's Pageboy attache.

Grass, scrublike, spouts from the occaisional you'll-be-sorry skull.

A stillness in oppressive flakes falls on Cuyahoga.

Vagabond Mishima, nearing his Eagle-free and Emmy Award Winning autoclimax, while chewing a cheroot coated in pure Lucas-chocolate like a stick of Aviator's Beeman's, bisects the Scyllas and Charybdi of a nether scape, stealing Gary Panter's Soviet spy-plane.

Staples himself to a bulletin board hoard, brings to boil, shakes and lets cool. Arms the dangerous. Tick. Tick. Tick. Serves six.

His riverrun blood howls into the molded basements of teenage hydropaths and sponge-hungry Dutch babies without Kiwanis gigs. Ticking still.

Revenant.