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through that window - past the panes of shattered glass, she grabbed hold of that blowing wind, climbed on top of the fury - etched her monogram into the bastard air. mustering all of the gusto she had left, she wrangled down that breeze from hell like a true cyclone ranger. and at 4 am, when lack of sleep loosened her grip a little off the beast - it tore and tossed and turned and writhed is ugly sworls and whorls and curls of dirt and leaves and twigs and things around her spinning, madly whipping head and hair - but she pulled her lasso tight against the din of night and wore her badge to prove she was a cyclone night ranger. but, as dawn broke - madly building gusts and bursts leaked through her net to find their way back down to earth ripping screaming babies and scared Chihuahuas from their bedtime cradlesè stealing bags from curbside mausoleums where they waited for disposal, raping neatly manicured piles of cut grass in yards where they lay silent for days - so she lured the fiercest force of air that she had ever met back through that shattered window pane, opened up her mouth wide and swallowed whole 2 babies, 3 Chihuahuas, 28 bags of forgotten trash and enough grass to re-sod an entire city block - not to mention all the dust and leaves and twigs and things, the sworls and whorls and curls, the tosses and the turns - leaving no doubt in my mind that she was the last cyclone of a cyclone ranger that would ever grace this earth again. |
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[Sleeping In Matzatlan] [Women In Black Panties] [Why I Love Being A Woman] [Without A Scratch] [Cyclone Ranger] [Wild Women]
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