Daniel Ortega smoked a cigar, after slamming a door, called McFarlaine on closed closet perforce a cool six. McFarlaine, his suicide subsided, crip crisp from Marine cupped in clan, insulted derided discarded,
Into the trash can of memory.
Ghislaine wishing and wanting, a mermaid unmaided, unmade, Count of Monte Christo, to be saved, Monte Christo not the sandwich, save the avocado, it grows in Nicaragua, as an unmade mermaid might croon a cool seven, if you could take a sail boat from Nicaragua to Little Saint James, up through the canal, the snaky one, stopping at Guantanamo to pick up the tortured, maybe sloop into Mar-o-Lag Oh!
Rock and roll the world, O Cuba! O Calcutta!
Ghislaine didn’t know how to say this, or whom to say it. Maybe Adair, this woman from Nebraska she met that day. The sloop John B, upon which Ghislaine had swished a wish, onto 9 East 71st Street’s southern counterpart, Little St. James, twisting in the wind, for hurricanes are powerful there, but how happy to see no clouds– smooth slooping and sailing–
Spam of Human Affection 
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