A dress. Dresses.

Now she's spilling bourbon over my a-line, all thumbs to keep our game up & running. Likewise I'll write about it. As poet-jewel-thief wearing a-lines, you might think it profitable for me to string her sentences together — paste rubies & artificial pearls deliberately mismatched, like John Waters’ suburbs, adroitly passé. Each sentence shines in gloom as ends won't match up with beginnings, not quite, each sparkle dulled into an afterthought containing falsehoods but cinched by faintly plausible style — sparkle doubled down, my other dresses hanging above bowls of Chesapeake crabs & fish hooks, a near accident or accidents-in-the-making!

Looking into the camera, I go clubbing, shopping, and I like standing outside various consulates.

I’ll let you know how that fares.