I watched her dropsaw briefcase snap open releasing

papergun necklaces, which rattled the branches of trees.

Where had the paints gone? the ones lost in the freezer.


She is a good deal, blonde.

Red fading turns to brown, and the

heat is forgotten as skyward bubbles fill slender necks.


A hashtagged cat cries all night and sleeps all day, as

a star-picket prosthesis steadies a scabby table in an unshaded yard.

A petite female frame planes plywood from a Sasquatch footprint.


A teacup pig snorts

from the businessman’s car, full

of surfboards and clinking empty glass


almost full, always leaving room for more. Lacquer drying

in toxic waves of heat, bending McDonalds splintering

in sunburn, and drying spray-painted collages, fifty shades of hot-pink.


She is a Sundog Dirtbag, her

dream is an enterprise. I heart

her art, which can be found online.

2 thoughts on “A Sundog Dirtbag Enterprise

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