Portmanteau is the Way to Go: NYC

Hoquiboken, New Jersey, jazz fest, Monterey, the Statue of Liberty, the tourist, the devotee, the cool, to klick ck ck ck kid, the yellow kid, the spleen between a dream, the come on now, the wow,

Adair sees herself as a hostess, with the mostess, and assss Monassis, in the cold, cold ground, a rimming round, pemckan,quivh

Adair, with her magnetic stare, her far-reaching star, her Bethelehem steel molten star stare,

Adair was never the one to ask,

“Why not turn every word into a portmanteau word?”

She’s a groovy chick gliding, skateboarding, slalom, big wave macho-feminist surfing, cruising, crushing, on target, on message, blow me down off an elephant, aboard a Greyhound Bus along with so many other passengers, just the same. Into NYC.

On the bus, there was that one nun Adair would never forget. You could only really see the nun’s face, but that was enough. Adair, as we know, boarded in Nebraska, but this nun? Adair must have been asleep when she boarded. (Do we say a nun boarded? This sounds crude.) The nun had a destination in NYC, same as Adair, yet Adair never saw the nun again, though many a time, in memory, Adair saw the nun’s face, and attempted to decipher it.

Adair would have loved to stay in Nebraska forever; then, to stay on that NYC-bound Greyhound Bus forever; then, to really get to LOVE that nun, forever.