— thanks to Joan Jobe Smith’s Moonglow Á Go-Go

Past tomorrow’s polling station and chili dog stand, this piss-poor perky protagonist, once a Sistine good girl Dorothy from next door made shitty living laboring over manual typewriters, flees her mean ex-old man who owes allegiance to Long Beach Hells Angels.

After dude broke both of my eardrums with chain-linked fists, passing stevedoreson the wharf, I wink at a Kansas sailor holding white linen crotch with humungous right hand while his other jabs an abscessed left thigh with a syringe size of Michelangelo’s javelin.

Thereafter slinking into some random transgressive but transformative titty bar named David’s, beneath banks of brilliant blacklight beacons, I try to metamorph into one belly-button sequined raw sixteen-year-old sexpot wearing soon to be beer-rotted ruby red shoes.

Gerard Sarnat

(Image is of “Puck”–a Hank fan in Bremerton, WA)