worrylines (inspired by "Escape from Alcatraz")


Tense, tightly-woven, meticulously orchestrated dramas
explode like cannons from your pores every day of your
midlife crisis. Prescription: Morrissey through a Walkman.


The lies told at the beginning of the week maintain a rigid
efficacy. Ziploc your soul twice, avoid the moribund effigy.
The only feasible path into a semiconscious mess starts with
thirty seconds of fearsome foreboding when the good guy goes black.

Will you waive the rewinding fee for my history of violence?
Pretty please? With sugar and toxic rest in Angela Lansbury’s life?
The mystery writer’s purse always hides the knife, enough smart
handbags for a twelve-year killing spree, helluva slide show
for the family, and in Philadelphia, the crossing guards are polar bears
with stop signs and prosthetic claws. What if Steven Spielberg
(censored verb)? I can think of scarier things:
Sarah Silverman’s wedding rings.

1010 WINS rarely reports on the congestion on the Tappan Zee.
What is there to see?

Organize your bulbs, dream of golden scorpions,
you are led to the zed to rest your weary head and when you wake
to smell the commerce, the prisoner issues a nail clipper.
The sport of your escape shall keep him alive and wicked.
The walls will be moist and brittle as you chisel
little by little to the tune of Eastwood’s Accordion
played by an orangutan.

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