Crunch goes on. Happens. Been done heard of. Crackers and wine, some brie with your snack platter. It's those days down under the table where you might not want to find yourself crunching, could be dangerous, could be contagious, might find yourself out with the dogs, lost on Venice beach, surfing with DO NOT DO ANYTHING signs, panting in the sun and in wish, or need, of saltfree water, something nourishing and pure, wise to the touch and taste, sniff-sniff, happy to gobble gobble the bone, the crunchy bone, that wish bone, a lost dream catcher, hide from the dog hunter, here he comes, on the run up towards Topanga where the wild things cast anchor, drop line, skip commas and comas, not afraid of sunstroak, or one eyed pirates out for booty, contaiminated or not, winking and dancing, two places at once- ah huh ah huh, free to breathe the undertoe and biting down hard on marrow.