Voltaic Junkyard--Pulse

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Pulse"
   
   Sheila was off on her own, not recklessly rambling through the junkyard, yet strutting with a bit of erratic mercury, which can be erratic, and we all need to control and maximize our PULSE, crafting a better ON and OFF signal by simple DC--and what happened to SUPERMAN peanut butter Sheila pondered, and in practical fashion, going to Peter Pan creamy, as it smoothly spread hearty health save to those with certain allergies, or not--if that's what they are.
   Sheila's relay, in a way, that small electrical switch to contain her high-voltage passion, was a cool canine, sloppy in the jowls, yet the extra-heat made the dog's saliva clean and meticulous, in a sense that you can let a dog kiss you, unless he or she has just sniffed some suburban-yard stool.  The park stool is much more toxic--you don't know where those dogs have been.
   Sheila thought about ordering a pizza with pineapple and plenty of copper-infused pepper.  They have always put salt and pepper on the table for a nice and pleasant reason.  America can be very nice.  Very nice.
   Sheila ordered the pizza, and the Italian dude dubbed Dominic, armed with enough store-bought grease in his hair to keep the lice away, as even the urban-dwellers gather contagion, like the vermin rats in NY, and the City should be glad coyotes can clean up that shit.  Maybe it's a sign.  Let wildlife roam freely too, and hire somebody in rubber gloves to clean up their poop--preferably a college graduate drunk on Kool-Aid.  
   Sheila found a futon in a small trailer-type of shelter.  There was a black and white with rabbit ears.  She cranked on the local grunge.  Should've ordered tacos--she thought, reluctantly, tasting the atomic crunch of what could have been, and yet--is.