I am still pumping gas in the year of the snake. Ha, ha. Spring forward, you cub scout; it's time you'm packed for the long march. I can hear a soft inflection in her scuffling spondee. His blue jeans, tight and cuffed, spread infrared rumors throughout Indochina. An alphabet of rhetoric curled around the silver fork and dripped promiscuous oils -- Is this what you meant? Is this what the editor wanted? Is this how you say it? Maybe he said it first, your honor, but I stole it fair and square. I am checking transmission fluids for viral anomalies. When we arrive at the mountain, empty your canteens. Listen for echoes of Paris in the 30's. Echoes of kerosene absurdities.

-- Michael West