…with blur for a head. Torrents churn beneath the architecture, which has become a neutral word for me, and denotes all this scaffolding crashing down around my bare ankles. One pill wakes my ass up and sets me to thinking. Donald Knuth, The Art of Computer Programming, Vol I II III IV. I'm trying to accept everyone for who they are, and not for what I feel they could be if they weren't so damned stupid. Poems are no different than eating, sleeping, discarding of waste by-products (shit, piss, but not semen, semen isn't waste). I save them in a jar behind the door, Eleanor Rigby! I've never understood their precocity. But for the most part I feel that my life has passed beneath streetlamps, somewhere in the menagerie mash-up of Lorain's drunk streets, mistaken by passersby for a girl because my hair is long, because I stumble blurting poetry or I stumble bleeding pictures. I think the males' heads fill up with nitrous oxide at age 13, and don't deflate until they're
30. No doubt, this can be deconstructed. Flies on a rail. The flood of flower rouge, of funky latitudes engaging jasmine sacrilige, jiggy with it at last! The work of the Damned…
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XanaxPop, by Lewis LaCook : Eleanor Rigby (...jiggy with it at last!)
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