The Meadow 35 Euphoric Recall Michael Angel Martín Following a bout of cotton fever, I grab by shattered phone and read your text: “Meet me at a Wendy’s for a Frosty.” Change of plans. Let’s split a bag for now. Draw bleach into a single rig by turns. Tided over, we can glue-gun pairs of googly eyes right on brims of hoodies. I can’t believe you said “subvert the art of puppetry.” What if we hit up Churchill’s just as the crew is tipping out, and beg Carmen for a five. A standup draftsman, you’d thank her with a portrait penciled by the particolored flicker of a busted jukebox. Fuck those noise kids litigating beer debts as they circuit-bend a Furby. Yeah, it’s jump-out at the spot today, a siren-haunted sunup. We can do it. Pulling up, the Cutlass heaving, curse the bagmen as they reach into our windows, snatch the shades right off our stupid faces.
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