Alex Jonz-Joned-Jones is a communicator.
A great communicator? Who is to say?
Does a great communion cater, crator, master priest abate, bator, abaittor, dealing in blood of the lamb, the long horn, the kid with a kick, a kid a goat, not remote, though radio waves are, in the blasé unblessed, oil rig blaze, out of phase, or an electric lightning “atta boy!” replete,
Okay an Alex, named after a Great One, Alexander the Great, not a bard, not a weeper, nor a screamer, but one, a student of Aristotle, of science and poetry, and so, fine Alex can tell of receiving wisdom, received wisdom, and transmitting it, as the mouth piece, the piece of mouth mouthing Barbie, in her synthetic hair shimmer:
Plastic mouthpiece,
Made of– plastic. A specific plastic, BAKELITE.
A plastic bard for a plastic babe in a song sonnet of plastic sentiment of word and tonality.
On a plate (eeeccchhhieei! oooo!) was some bread and wine.
Alex Jonz-Joned-Jones came down the aisle, in perforated splendor. The dang church, at that moment, was designed for echo, echo aisle, for resonance. He had to love Barbie. Necessary grace, for the human race, and dear sponsors. She was a chic, a filet a’ chee, chee, chee… Jones, playing bones, the living can do that, advertisement fed the flame, and,
Went FLAT.
Spam of Human Affection 
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