Oldest and most read piece….kinda like it more today than seven years ago
I have begun to refer to that period as
As though some distant civilization
arrived and occupied the
Neighborhoods and alleys
of my Self.
Took over the garages with massive parties that
bled into the basement.
And got ugly.
And did shit.
And cleaned up.
And fell down laughing, and
And wrote on walls.
But only in chalk,
so as not to be too
(But the chalk wounded the
brick just with patient abuse).
And they let out the patients in my madhouse, let
out the criminal and the thief and the mini-Con.
The soft junk.
The empty rooms turned
into impossible choreographed numbers
that can never be quite replicated.
Short story notes
in frost of window
the only thing left is
some kind of crude arrow.
The lyrics persist in…
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