to help navigate my portfolio . . . —

a zany frolic to do some flaunting . . . — Under maritime skies of gossamer organdy salty ragamuffins and beasties will bandy superheroes and princesses be feelin’ randy in animated pursuit of complimentary candy. Huntress Moon will be rapture gallivanting her hokeypokey dance can be so daunting making sure no hungry munchkins are wanting while every bad boogeyman she be haunting…

getting balmy on a dilly-doodle day . . . — Bend my stem real low gather my petals gently kiss me one more time.

my stray-dog saga at Mammoth Lakes . . . — My wicked dad, among his minor abuses, was a rotten planner of family vacations. With nine kids, some planning might’ve been fun. Spur of the moment back in 1962 (when I was six), dad drags a dozen of us to the bottom of the Grand Canyon for an overnighter. No…

when my meander dwindles, tiny tingles linger . . . — Faded variegated apple branches exhale faint wavy mist drops radiate hummingbird rushes in for a gingersnap sip limbs scrub the stale summer air whooshing in to wrap my long tresses into gray swathes of psycho. Vines are plump and punctuated by mauve harvesters rumble a tightwire act fondling juicy orbs of potential full…

where fangs puncture my pomegranate pipedreams . . . — I guess she’d rather be in Transylvania a swift tumble toward a zombie rendezvous trolls cavort with ghouls on kazoo once again . . . I hear her howlin’ once again . . . some scarecrows yowlin’ such a gory gurgle begs a towelin’ werewolf is backdoor disembowlin’ . . . why would she rather hang in…

take your pick of geriatrics . . . — I reside in a pokey crammed with lunatics Widow Wonker whacks off with her crucifix Rod gets rood envy biddies in a frenzy meek copycats only dare to use chopsticks. No, really. Tootsie in two-oh-two is divine she’s fashioned a plump Trumpian shrine his festering lumpkin the hue of pumpkin and portly rats gnaw…

holding the handlebars loosely . . . — If there’d been a World Wide Web back when I was about to leap into the great unknown of a cross-country trek, I never would’ve gone. If I’d had that research tool at my fingertips, I would’ve shriveled in the face of all that visibility. I would’ve found out other…

where gourds are spider-kissed . . . — Burrowing toes shrouded by simmering sands switchbacks still beckon to doddering marrow candles flicker in gourds like flirting feral cats while a fond breeze fondles the mossy tendrils. Once upon a gossamer gulch inlaid with mettle deeply steeped in the fake fray of pithy history five bespectacled munchkins defy a scarecrow by…