Perhaps as you travel along the Franglais coast
near the Chunnel, you might find your way through
the wisping smog to the island of one Dr. Port-
manteau. Here, the tweens meld their common
pasts irregardless of the loss; it all comes out
in the wash. First, there is language. Then, a
world of new things to enjoy: sexploitation,
mathletics, ebonics. Guesstimate, if you will,
the lives and eras that fade together, dare to
assign them as less or more than the sum of their
parts. Alas, there is no room for self-awareness
on the island. We are frenemies, one and all,
arms locked against the gears of the modern
machine. Raise your voice in preservation
of the pure soundscape if you wish, but here
you must be gone by midnight. It is then that
the cyborgs ride, strong and fierce in forward
momentum, shadows among the tangelo groves.