We Are A Dragged CultureLast night, I had dreamed that you could touch my inner smile and I’d be happy for a while. Ah, but alas, oh no! Say it isn’t so! They’ve hijacked my brain and made me go insane. Singing deliriously the songs of that crushing feeling of two middle-aged hearts inside the roach motel. The desperation in the faces of the girls. When, oh when will they ever learn that love is a stab of insanity cured by marriage?
The old negroesque man on the train slobbers about in his seat and says half-mumbly-bumbly, “Fuck that, fuck that. Something just gotta hide. Right on brother, right on. You get that right, know what I’m saying? Get this ass out of the cab. Starting to piss me off....”
Oh the waywardness of assumption. It is so priceless, yet the ass rides alone. So queer, the ass smelled of rotting toads.
I am piecing together my life through an old dog-eared book, when I look up at a beautiful angel and ask; “How do you dance and not get so dizzy? I know that is what I would do,” I say.
“Focus one the movement,” says he. He thinks it’s just practice.
He thumbs through my pile of recordings on the windowsill and I say, “I am listening to recycled music.”
“How is it recycled, “he asks.
“Well, I don’t listen to the same music all of the time, it’s all different titles.”
“Oh,” says he and flutters away on silent feet.
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