to a hippie convention. Oh, evening!
thinks John Ashbery, who doesn’t hold
to convention like I do. Then the world
sets about trying to discover the identity
of the narrator. The poor thing! Must
have been drunk out of his mind. Or
worse! Most everyone was quickly
distracted by about a million different
things. Some had to tend to their
gardens. Others to meals already in
progress. As for me, I just kept directing
traffic and confusing the pedestrians.
At night we saw the stars and the moon,
annoyed the neighbors by reading aloud
until about four a.m. Then we made a
bunch of recordings of boiled eggs
set up in various postures and poses.
