because you pay/
for it to matter to me.
"...she's been seeming like she's been dreaming while awake lately..."
I was so used to the silence of late summer afternoons, when I could roll my hoop through the empty, sunlit piazzas without meeting another shadow, that at first I mistook the footsteps for the beat of a metronome spilling through an open window.
Sometimes you're too bar behind to be properly “prepped” for it, sometimes you're too far past to notice, yup, you've missed your (cultural) train . . .
...they'd told us about green mamba strikes, failure to take our anti malarials, the insanity of alcoholic Flemish nuns.
a poem about things exploding/burning down/scattering for miles.
This was the tale Einstein told us about these paintings by Lenin...
I was going through Lenin's jewelry and his paintings with a team of experts. I got the idea that I was hired to verify his paintings, although I didn't know he painted.
Across the placid sea/The only moving ship/
Was eyed by Blackbeard
This is why I’ve decided to assign myself a position in life similar to that of Stuart Sutcliffe with the Beatles.
—Now that’s a hell-of-a-painting, Frank, he said. Those colors are engaged in warfare. How the hell did you do that?
I grew up in Cleveland and when I returned I became friends with the manager of the Cleveland Indians.
or Walmart, where punks play the blues
In lieu of suicide, on toy guitars:
the wind mistook your arms for wings
Hotel scene (bring your imagination)