Sunday, November 05, 2006


He said, B is like the 8 that quit, but she wasn't listening at all, she was thinking about parachutes. If only there were a soundtrack for these types of things!

Soiling was such a bad habit to begin with; the first parents could feel only the most blue alarm as to what this precipitated. And to think, this is how affection began: cement like lovers sleeping, the mannish mammal thrown up against the sky, nine men on a single couch arguing about volleyball and bedsheets.

At noontime disaster and lemons became agreeable again. Lobsters began tiptoeing and the wind beatboxed ceaselessly. Miniature dogs lurked behind theories for scat singers in mittens and we kissed again and again and again and again.

Tapdancing would have been such a fabulous way to settle WWII. Imagine Hitler and FDR up there in vibrant slacks Fred Astaire-ing off walls onto pool tables—singing in the rain—a tremendous Gene Autry automaton in the foreground and Churchill in the first row with the biggest bucket of popcorn.

Rainbows vs. Carpenters

Round One: Rainbows
Round Two: Carpenters
Round Three: Draw
Round Four: Carpenters

I swim to the surface, pissing on streetlights. This is so sudden, you say, I never knew you felt that way. If only the sun weren't exploding. Wait no, hurrah, it was only oranges. Fantastic!