The cultural leftovers maintains a shape. It is Two Thousand the year of our Lord
of Sunlight and moderate humility. What are your expectations? I’ve
already gotten used to all of the poetry and this expectation
fits my desirability (IMHO). He’s nuts when he cooks and he makes me hungry.
I am reading about a chef invoice
after midnight. It says you owe me this much. A Humble invoice. A United
wealth States invoice. A bill for Carnegie. A Mellon bill. It is 3:04pm and
the baylight rosebushes—Oh
“And if we are to understand ourselves”
I’m gonna dress my head for the wind next to the giant burrito. I am oncall
and I am reading these bookx to the ocean up there. Up there where
two thousand reflected classless societies. Up there where
middle afford homes. It is understandably above and beyond the call. We show this
by black marks on a white ocean. We show this by the taco truck—it’s The advent
of a paperback explosion—they will warm it up for you. We scream about this.
Judith Butler screams about this. My green dragon screams about this.
We scream there’s no sour cream we scream there’s no guacamole.
