Young love is great.
Adair has entered the great city, and boy o’ boy is she turning heads, stopping traffic, causing congestion, post nasal drip, post nassau rip tide, into shark slide, her dress clinging nonesuch, her attire, but– she has no spare tire– Adair was born naked, or in other words stripped– of her comforting Nebraska womb–
In the Nebraska womb it wasn’t really brown sugar, but was it broom thistle, or, on a silent eave, channel of bright water, the umbilical cut, Norwegian to like, Salish Injuns passing through,
Adair favors corn, as do all good lovin’ abov’
Corn grows here. If I had myself some aborignals, I’d have them grow some ginseng. Gin sings, that’s not to say vodka don’t walk. Sometimes it sways and sashays, in a primeval, Montemartre printemp
Young love is great, which is not to say old love is bad, any more than to say black lives matter means blue lives do not.
Spam of Human Affection 
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