Voltaic Junkyard--small block

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--small block"
   
   Sheila giggled as she felt the flow of a facing wind get sucked into the ram-air intake of the somewhat, from certain perspectives, small block Ford; indeed, the 1969 Boss 302 was not to be forsaken, especially--out of the hole, like a high-velocity bullet.
   Sheila was also enlightened as to not be all personal sizzle and craze, though loving herself, yet never containing the light completely, allowing it to penetrate others, pink hearts and all that Kerouac jazz scripture--an asymmetrical beat, though forged by the Holy Ghost, haunting in spectacular shimmer, distancing her from the whirlwind, which of course she did not sow, only using her weaponized potential for defense, like with an art of the hand and foot--nothing else.
   Why prove the large breasts like a she-male, when the man prefers cupcake cleavage, not needing loud noise, though sometimes a GOODYEAR BLIMP is needed to spy Staubach and Bradshaw at the Super Bowel, when Rocky Bleier played with as much pain, if not more, than any man--I ask?
   Sheila steered the Boss into the junkyard, a soft growl of gristle grumbling, and the rubber on the heated wheels finding home-base, as if youth-inspired matrimonial innocence, from everlasting to everlasting.