Dance halls bang the pavement till dawn...
—Kevin Killian
is what I didn’t do last night. Regrettably. This
morning is what I might as well be saying. Have
been saying. Time goes by. So slowly. While read
ing Kevin’s book in all of the 101 California
elevators. Time goes by so slowly for those who
wait. But for what? If I speak of the various in
sects crawling around in my periphery, would I
simply sound nihilistic? Fine. Kafka off! The grid
work of pavement that surely exists on the other
side of this bolted door my ear’s clung to all night
ing Kevin’s book in all of the 101 California
elevators. Time goes by so slowly for those who
wait. But for what? If I speak of the various in
sects crawling around in my periphery, would I
simply sound nihilistic? Fine. Kafka off! The grid
work of pavement that surely exists on the other
side of this bolted door my ear’s clung to all night
is a map that sings to my synapses until they
collapse and all of my organs unfold to cover my
decrepit desk like the fanciest of tablecloths. Which,
look, has explicit instructions inscribed rather indel
icately upon its dingy fabric re: how to astral project
to all Frisco discos still aflicker, be they present or past.
decrepit desk like the fanciest of tablecloths. Which,
look, has explicit instructions inscribed rather indel
icately upon its dingy fabric re: how to astral project
to all Frisco discos still aflicker, be they present or past.
