this finished product, says the bar of soap, not tested on animals. i'm hanging on to that loophole; i can buy sneakers all day long now, since foot locker isn't a sweat shop. i'm not an ethical superstar, mind you; we simply hates being treated like we just tumbled from the logic truck. the soap was a gift, happily, and the perfect size to lob at the nasty neighbors across the alley.

logic truck, throwing arm: my pile of 'finished' poems was whining for attention, so i broke it up and sent the survivors to the mailbox. little verse armadas are sailing off to editors around the country as we speak. i have a silly fear of those editors getting together and shredding manuscripts with duplicate cover letters, so i penned a fresh one for each entrant. penned: i still can't compose at the keyboard. phobias are murder on the wrist.

send luck.

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