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Dance, Ride, Holler

there was never a child unborn, climbing up a sling

platform. He was just me, sitting down and listening with
his cheeks (and) mouth. the second day, i fell asleep to
lose the idea of his existance. it didn't work / it did not
work. i felt helplessly happy all over again.

these were the days of me and my someone, coming up

hitchcoCk all over the lawn. they were nights of worry and
paraso?ls of dim glass, unshattered. my son was no one and
me all in one. she was the completest thing thrice over.
drowned out. my shallowest objectification is retreated
and restored in the high heart of my in-me city. a city that
later [was the beginning of my parents and godparents,
flickering with booksales, pesticides].

the very last thing i remember is hurting you. it sounded

hard and felt fast. i'm not sorry and i'm not supposed to
feel crowded. with superhero-like tears, he came up, my
child, came up into the deep soot day and wished me
awake, praying he'd never see the first day of himself. he,
from that day on, was never conceived.

in a few days from now i saw myself flying in a schoolbus

tortured with wisconsin mantles and trance music. i also
thought delivering was essential and positive for seniors.
we have nothing to learn from children. children are stupid
and can give darkness to everythING. praying is the only
tool on the agenda Worth initiating. my son knows that.
my son also knows it's the last person to sound off & hush
up like a barcode dæmon. writing me off like a snowhill.
there was not this Particular Time when my son and i
travelled to January 3, 7275 and saw the middle of
existance, it probab1y happened. if fathers like this
alway's shoot, youre the last one to belong (right, like
sailors follow flashy lightning) my son definitely doesn't
know that. he is bestupided. car alarms are intelligent and
coherent. theres something you can wrap your mind
around. ö

which brings me to the center: how come our names

haven't been changed to children's? and how come your
(our] last laugh was so pallettably stricken with goloss? '||

my son knew that. he drove ofF in a driven mountain, store

the way home. broke trains of incomparable bliss and
fielded them to me or I as i call it (that was the one that
made him cry the least). autumn leaves did gift his
landlord and smothered his manufact%ured tresspasser.
you see, HE is the one who graded tha papers, SHE is the
one who will guide my sterling navel, (oh how i mutter the
words of pond distance in the light of the brave.).

if one were to psych-out more sex clowns (like on the lucy

show) we'd all Be dangling in seven dimensions like my
goddad. if ever there was so clear a night, i'd suckle the
wrath of insanity's husband. my son"s husband as the best
of all, he sets my doo-wah straight, he sets the alarm and
sets the bed and sets the iron while its tepid. My Son's
Husband doesn't know that. i don't knew that,
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to be the real me, son.


draped with blossomed coincidence, i felt uneasy hosing

down the corner store. it was right in the middle of a
football game, and i came up to me and said, "why all this
and i replied, "who's pants is that, and leave."
"where'd you get all that money?"
"the school"
how come it TOOKSOLONGTOG et here3?
"because you're weightless, brother"


during the earliest hours of my golden years, we used to go

riding in the old nebula-chariot, i always loved the way the
particles blew through my face and eliminated most
memories. bliss like that doesn't come in cans. my son was
the weakest of all, he used to join me on our little
excursions with a blasted-out toaster and a rutabega and
say: "choose". he knew i was lying every time.

*tears run down my face*

my other sisters grouped around me, spilled blood from

their bosoms and made people for me to sleep with. i
always yoused to love the scent of future on the back of
my jaw, caressing my embryo in the most curious fatherly
fashion. distance grew, and i parted ways. one of me went
to school and the other back to assisted living, giving
creeps to big kids. fortieth street was always crowded with
octogenarian ME-fans. they wouldn't line up to screw me,
but to do me out, wash me in and scathe me down.
before 7202, know won eight an nu yourk.

new york was just a nother core of people for no one to

love, swirling with stationary kinetix, draped diaper piles
lined the sealings, babies flew from the upstares.

hear is the lettr i rote to the mayer:

May 34, 7244


Thou rattled unfolded self is fresh again, cast it off! Play

piano like my children, and the children we had together,
for thine is the gusto which hath bore me down into this
oxygen ground, clouds below. Thank you, Minickey, for
sleeping inside me, tasting the coffee of my son's unborn
soul and leaving me at fortieth street with all the

Giving me life was the last light you ever lit in me, I i'm
proud to say you're me last hope, grouping glaciers with
the stroke of thy palm. Cometh and bringst thine truck,
as we sail into the 60's, baffled by the modernities of
antiquated recepticles.

This gift from me is not for you, it is befor your unborn

son and the son unborn in all of us, metallic an scientific.
Grateful am I, as you saved this region, still smouldering
from the ice age battle. (i won).

May your steed be equipped with gangsta hydraulics,

Draviosh >. Deutoræmin
When i receeved no reply, i was so belittled, fought dead
in the cold of Mai. braving the last days of techno, i
restrung my sampler and tuned it to 7.3 (it was so intune i
couldn't pray anymore).

music is the one thing i can say will never change in our
past. it is unchanged and delicious, like a tower of
inpenetratable cornmeal, shimmering in the shade. this
song i wrote is called "i2" and forever changed the nu yourk

it goes like thes:

5-7------------- h-5-5------------

-7 - - - - - - - - - --------'


-- - - - ----------------------------
-mk-- - - --

-------7---5-- -

keepin touch, jason


as dark days weened on, a flicker in my chest awoke,

hovered down to ground level and bevelled as axe doth.
brave soldiers of misfortune lined the non-streets,
breaking heads with their almighty infant fingers. i nice a
say so pianist tried thinketh meal, drance. begotton mule
flavours roamed my mouth, heighteneing the experience
of a cold drunk stumbling rigid in yer tummy. i was the last
son who eight yer eggs.

that was me and this is now, son. although born & unborn
yet notunborn, you hold a drill of truth in your paw, poised
to pierce holes through humanity's history. californi-a was
my birthday place. cran-crappies baffled the scientourists
(oh, how they pranced like icky angels alongside roads to
impure communities.) fickle is he who scoffs in the face of

nenna poured hot rain down the throat of glowing

children, composed of flourescense. nenna was the woman
who'd made him all come true, she was like the last whale
to float into the dæmon bay of velvet. nenna was the
mother of my unborn son.

he did din't not exist, 2. if i'nm pratty shoire, blat musk if

tootse percapmth, hande.

the sound of cars in 1992 travelling from one mile to

another. the sound of my son crying is like that,

Page Down

i alteriorated the obliteration molecules! distances from
neuyork have been elongated! laugh, you slammy hands, in
the rear of our cheif! my son knew art had it's capabilities,
he didn't know that. breakdance art is the most timely and
costeffectif. collect your embedded debt, chet. your #
***********my friend just said +old testament, new
testament, asthmatic protagonist+.*****************
brady mathews told fran dice wernt fer chewing, sucka. i
got (and she got) a lady like a litebulb. kind of like the
vulgar villians avec beards who stomple over everything
out of their way. soemtimes i write a comma and force
myself to kip writttting.

cars these years only go less speeds like 02830283 miles


my so;n knwos that.

the image of beauty in which my son was unborn was

H0me, vlafennis, Fortitude 1818. she, nenna, always
memberd the address. i uzully did too. if you walked down
to the up teir, my moma would stand their yelling in hr
chair, "go up my way and taste the hits of triumph!"
orsomething to the tune of "lies! masts of ships in truth
seas be not lies!" then i would go up to moma and say:"i
dont love you and your breakfasts are dissapointing." she
and me did not make an son. whose name was
guironocone, or, as we lliked to address, |Lants
|Lants Ph:armer| was into all sortsa stuff, including
dramatic photography and hyperharp zoning. he didn'not
know that. he was not the kind of child to displease his
parents, those being me and only me and moma. 7221 was
a glad year for him, we never bought him his first
pedioscithe, but lolly! was he up for grabz! his best friend
that year was Qarl Iopena33, draped like anicent trance in
a old video songtrack. it was also the year when i became
him and she became me, or at least a part of me, guiding
my actions like a jet airplane conductioneer.

now its 7275 and i am still not fashioned by the mallot of

the unborn. lilting my way one way oranuther, not knowing
where my insides will take me next. sometime's i think
thank god for alcatron, the station who put me up for a
night and fastend trousers to me hasty steed. light bright
table-ware still adorn my porn.

*sound of angels dancing on glassrooftops, grapeade money

orders fall from infinite sky*

three days ago i hopped up on my horse and couldn't find
my home. i rode around the mountains underneath,
without fruit, sat in the shade of an ancient tree and ate
hot dogs. i also ate some of those cups of ice cream that
come with the wooden eating implements. three days
earlier, i sat in my home without my son, crying (oh, i was
so happy). how i used to tell stories to her was dark and
comical, with trash about sitcoms inbetween, crummy
crown dogs ate pie leftovers.
when i climbed up the leaflet ocean of moss, i accidently
found my home, next to the smouldering rubble of new
You'rek. it smelled just like it did when i was growing up
and going to petholic preschool, learning to cut
construction paper and reciting the our father. then i went
to a ratheran college and had to addon to the end of the
our father and it made me very confused. now i do not
know what to do.

i always thought there was something wrong with me, and

the way i think outside my head, or the way i think with
my entire body when i'm alone or not alone (which usually
means walking outside [or in large buildings that allow for
brisk paces]). my parents knew it, my teachers knew it, my
professors know it. i don't know how i got into college.

my son wasn't dripping in blood as a baby, he was 22 feet

tall and sacked metropoli (w/ his bare hands).

i miss the year i spent with dorkass junior high friends in

summers and winters bitter. you know, the years when
trouble meant cool and avoiding getting beat up was
almost as important as impressing girls whom you could
never get but if you did, you wouldn't know what to do
with them when you got em.

i used to try to talk and sing as low as i could in junior high

school. now i sing in falsetto because i'm more
ok.ANYWAY, on with the story.: Iffin K. Kline traited pore
tractors for traffic lites, strobelighting as sand does when
its sunny.
oh, and thanks for the 442w dollars you gave me for no
reason, oh, you didn't give them to me, i stole them,
thanks anyway.

things like this make me want to say "eoooow!"

my hopest fears are lost when i can't even remember the

middle of the national anthem rhythm. a sickness fell over
me though when i remembered. Mid-7272 was kinda like
that summer in junior high: bitter in the extreme seasons,
careless because of company and time poorly (well) spent.

1 time i was leaking fluid outta my back end when i saw a

sundog looming over my baby daughter's head. you
completely knew where i was going with that. that with
going was i where knew completely you. 36 is dad 9239 is
mom, bite yor fingernails. my son's fingernails are all gone
and what remains is catlike (MEAOW!) my cat is a different
story. my son knew that, that i wasn't wearing glasses
when i wrote that. thanks for
the magic, oliver.


now i'm getting ready for a scrimmage, i must let the

jetplanes in my abdomen land so that i can use my head to
listen to thoughts. i must breathe.
tonight is the nite.
*aeprautthseetgicw "io dnoknt't knnoowd"

my sword and gusto are prepared, leap in my butt,
demitri! well its been sittin there for a long time,. time for
a vocal s0lo: i-i there is a small man inside me who wantsta
stay there, jittery, poking up my diaphragm, but -again-
chooses to reside in me [kinda like a bad bricklayer].

demitri wasn't the guy who started the riots of 7222. my

son was. i kissed him hard afta that. him and nenna are
gonna be great pals. Lants was in me before i could see
striaght, as he had no problems at birth, i had no problems
at midlife crises. i am a chip of of the old son is a chip off
the old block off the old chip off the new town down the

the day i first feeled the uneasy in me was Sept. 41, 7203
(the same day as your heart died inside). for me it was a
replacement of sorts of my organs and endocrine system, it
was not a INSIDEOUT thing in me, but a unhorrible growth
which shrunk like summer mushrooms from a new season.
the air smelled like thanksgiving that day, grey and flat
(but robust with the pricks of jiggle-coffins dipping in the
decay of blunly brown kitchen tunes). i will forget that
day, but only after i am ded.
i will die, and i will be 0.0% and you will be 100% + 0.0%
and you won't know where that extra spice is comin from.

you'll thank me november 21, 199993

i won't be waitng.

chHAPtER 7
i am feeling you out. i am starting from the stomach,
kneading you without the aid of your own acids. i'm poking
the tissue, like i'm stuck in a rubberballoon, making fun of
it's inelasticity. now i will hurry upwards through your not-
swallowing esophagus, you can't swallow because i have
taken up the space where the swallow usually hides, you
don't know what to do. there is a blinding brite darkness in
the forfront, and a film of course oil seeps up your spine,
as i massage your eyes with mine. i am taking the clothes
you envision you wear and i'm getting inbetween
them. this is a new layer. it feels like there are whispy,
fluffy clouds of wasp deep in your colon, screaming like a
6226 car (the last car ever). i am licking the space
between your fingers and fingernails with my carrot-soaked
toungue, you can't see the horizon. and i'm fucking the last
gash left from the bullets shot from your imagination. you
climax in wretched orgasm, drooling like a sick girl in bed
(when school has already begun).

from this point on, you are shackled by your legs, waist,
wrists, neck, pigtails, to your skip-day bed, still feeling like
influenza is your newer name. without warning, i will rip
the skin off your breasts and have sex with the muscle and
pulsating everything left in crooked ribcage, semon covers
your lungs (and starts filling them). now you cough for
hours, but i am not gonna start stopping. as you lay,
coughing, fettered, cold & pouring,
i kiss the balls of your feet and reach my arm around the
small of your back and, with my other hand, dip a 4 foot
metal scoop into your belly and salvage any eaten meal
left and make sure all meals henceforth will taste of this
say. a new oil is sprayed in a fine mist, covering your
shaking legs. (although, shaking is extremely difficult as
you are fastened). dirt is inserted into your knees and i
resew the skin with my teeth and a toothbrush, drinking
booze. spilling with caution, i karate your neck with
cleavers, drinking whatever fluids escape, saving some for
you. then i paint you with molten titanium as all sores,
cuts, gashes, and openings are sealed for eternity. and the
way you feel right now is the way you will feel in a million
years from now. there is no rate of decay, there are no
good/bad days, no breathers, no doctors.

that is a poor retelling of what i felt like the day you

miraculously dawned in me, and how i still feel as you
guide my roaming body.

now you know what its like, hey.


that was your birthday, which i celebrate as my birthday

(since it is my birthday as well, and i am not well). i never
get presents unless i contact nenna or iffin. damn the rock
that spins in my bloated head.

sex with myself is unruly and coarse, asyou may have

imagined. it always ends in blood and gets better with
chocolate. i am a virgin of 78 years old. i have a long life
ahead of me, why waste my dick on slime? my mom always
told me so, she was no slime and my dad never let
anything go to waste. i had a lot of couches in my uproom,
sitting with dirty pictures in my hands, across the room,
anything was hard.

pride overtook my penis as i strode over the rocky outcrop,

panting. there was blood on my lips from biting, but all the
pets in our house were sure to stay away. i still have the
pewter earring and the scar to prove it. i don't see
anything in the bible that says its wrong to fuck your
stuffed animals underneath the covers. they'll have to
amend that.


imagine if the universe, instead of nothing and molecules

was completely composed of blood that drained from my


have you ever smelled the color of ink on a taxi? that's the
sound a flower makes when its ready for sugar.


darling, you look asian; pull your pants up around your

fling ing carbon mon oxide wasn t the easiest egg in the
dozen. i stamped the last 'denied' on my momma's pie and
it was gooooood. my momma knew that. now she's in
space. she's probably visiting some of her costomers and
costumers right now, mingling like a brown fish. she didn't
give birth to nenna, but nenna is her daughter.. how could
that be? i know women's voices that are lower than mine.
singing. corner tonkey passers singin on the go, your the
loudy serpant packer in the rain. they don't know what you
say in while. i found your dad's magazine in my beard, it
was stuck there (with glu).

bed is over there, i lay in it now, fly fast upward in to

outersleep. i am a night rocket, destination: deep dream
cluster. my deep sleep will have its own gravitational pull,
but will be stopped short by a f***ing alarmclock asteroid.

juicy organs seranade my lilting lids, shutting like

windowshades over my peeps. liquid time!

welcome, alternate rhythms (


its so windy outside, everyone looks twice as beautiful.


i love going bathing when its rainy, church feels spikey in

punkrock weather. tha whether channel. i went to church
last year and saw god in my crotch, then i woke up to find
god all around me, singing dancing menace of wretched
blues playing the harp of sentiment (pouring the gasoline
of love into my braingastank). i dug up my bones
underneath the pews to find my mothers bones and my
mothers mothers bones and my mothers
mothers mothers mothers mothers mothers motUNTIL I
Rwandi, gd blss hr.

i felt the sun on my back and yawned, i was so happy i

could eat22

im really a mess rite now, thankfully stopping potions in

the river seeks bottoms of midness. drake depth and coily
soil. i am like a pregnant president of the united states of
america. i am like a pregnant president of the united
states of america. planter is my idol, dream launderettes
flagellation of highest mistrate.

i want to build a deep chair in the sky which is not

uncofortable. this way i can sit in my cloudthrone, as it
were, and piss my pants and cities will all be aware of the
inabsorbancy of mine undees. the pope is wearing my
undees! f*ckin dippy pope!

when i expanded the brain of my son with an actual movie,

he was beatup. ive never seen a look like that on anyones
face. now he will quit his original two interests and delve
into the antiquated world of stopmotion, ionic micropixel
formulation, hyperbolic cameraangles, and 01.22 lighting
techniques (especially in the hydromolecular drip-fan
racing pictures of the 2520's--2550's. films like The Ice Sky
Told, Breaky Broke & the
Last Second, Dilemma, The Horn of Obstinence, etc.

down the leftest harbor of olive oil, i rowed a salt turbine

to Hollywood. on the way i came across a dripmopper
singing w/o picking keys. i was enthused by his
unembarrassed honesty. i love the scream of love out
people's throats. i have met gott, and the name is pharynx
larynx eppiglottis tracheaman.

also, once, flowers grew out of my belly like i was made of

potting soil! my god how it smelled! like beachball! like

a space shore from this hotel looks like an amp, P. Man

Aekil skooll et ohsih t mor feroh secapsa!


this is the cold, bright night which blinds my fingers,

running through streams of ending iron. these are not the
days of files, stapled documents, waves of undulating
photocopied ephemera (dancing with dragon Sun Toungue)

i like the light in body closet. heart drugs tasting good with
a drink in the afternoon. the afternoon of gold is worth a
lot of money. sunny money, triptophanatic gummy bares
from a long time from now. i took the nebula-chariot to
|Lants Ph:armer|'s house and spoke:

"son, you know how long i had to travel to get here."

"i think i know, Draviosh, i think."

"you're right. negative years-and-years. 5,323 to be exact"

(yes, i am finally in an impossible time where things barely

"but Dad, this is my home, why do you make me feel like i
am so far away?"

Lants, i've arrived here to tell you about your other

childhood, the one in the 7210's. you wouldn't believe your
intellect and frequency phactor. i can tell you are still me
and in me though, that curious look in your eye makes me
whole. jump back inside me, Lants!"

"Dad, i've been having an inmedical feeling in my stomach,

an impossible, antiphysical, extraorganismic, horrible
beginning of a feeling in my gut"

"Son, you read the letter is sent?"

"the one i'm reading right now as we speak"


"but does this mean?"

" "

"please don't leave me," he said in the sincerest plead. he

had remembered the comfort..

|Lants Ph:armer| was pregnant for 34 months, "suit and

tie" pregnant for 34 months and 6 days. he felt he had the
start of something inside him, he was ready to give birth to


I can't wait.




;. ;


oh, thank you.

now i am you and unborn like the new and reborn son in
you that was born in me--PILOT MY BLOOD VESSEL and be
the engine inside of me, as i guided you. start the fire and
lead me to white life purpose.

meet me in the Gieiieo building, floor 2, angle 6.


it is all starting in you now, and now i can see the

atmosphere for what its werth:

-13 $


swirls of colors continually reinventing themselves into

frequencies on different scales, eyes can't see swirls like
these, deep warp swimming, enterring our pinkish hell

metal, swimming through.


(5,323 years later)

"i see you have found me" i said

"no, i didn't, you found me"

we embraced, i killed him and he became aware to a new,

better time filled with neon-neon outcroppings,
disproportionate glasspyramids and lines and text
interfering with everyday life.

Lants was starting to lose his pregnancy weight. he wasn't

a good looking man, but he was looking good.

Then, i waisted up his shoelaces, bringing back all the

rainbows that flowed inside me, and found out the dirty
secrets kept inside his pockets. i ate up all the chitlins
packing soup for the long haul, hourly brateisteed
foutereainteds. i'mnot resting for the yurinal groupious
hotyiobbn jumpers. grace redemption assitainers feeling
poorly smack masks in the light of weary umpires (vlad).
gift to your graft given.

thanks for the internal butt clock, ticking poop as it poors.

we were walking along the impossible slopes of pink,

dodging fields of neon and three-dimensional text


"BOY 8, DN:"

"2938 KIUP"


and other things in the language we occaisionally spoke.

"son, your swelling is increasing, have you given thought to

giving birth?'

"it's something i've wanted for a long time, something

inside me must come out"

"yes, it is true, it is ME that must come out"

"i know, father"

when they reached the city of towering shards, they

stopped in a small eatery and ordered bread and drinks.
they robbed the store, which was customary, and pilfered
the wall hangings.

"thanks" they both shouted as they left slowly. it seemed

Lants belonged to this time.

L. Pharmer gave birth that very day. he knew he didn't
have to name it because it's name was already tatooed all
over his body: "you".


now i feel like i can breathe again.


two days later the three of them (the two of them) didn't
go downstairs, they went back to downtown and Lants
hopped on the next train to 1952.


the two days inbetween were the days that lasted


He still had his maternity three-piece on and it looked
fFfFfF. we went and picked out a nice ripe peel dapple
flite shop garment that bode well on his appearance. he
did not look like scrambled eggs. you don't eat denver
omlettes in Syracuse.

we attended the chuch of a thousand godz and he masked

his delight as we passed through portals of brake-shame. i
changed my name to Yalle. Now i changed it back.
in the twisted purpleshimmering trees of hooped-up forest,
we climbed through to Aguernicus 8, our big sun, and
picnicked as a bivuac.


When Lants and I arrived at the station, a jartyr stopped
him just as he was getting on.

"whoa there," he haultered, "what is this Great Goobly

Glanicous which gnarls our senses?"

"it's in the nutrition facts, buy a two pack, guy."

"hm, i am PEOPLE."


the marvelous city shined like an exotic fruit, its color so

bright, its smell so clean: mm mm mm.
there was a greenish shooting star that flew from the
heavens, around one of the 12 moons and straight into the
core of the planet: mm mm mm.

a measley dollop of scrath is all we can manufacture. a fat

man wouldn't get anywhere in this train, this is the future,
apples taste delicious always, fat men taste delicious
always, i am the one who brought about the war.
i knew i could not last too long with my pharycide-laiden
torso-pack glimmering with anit-time particles,
shieldingmy own son from me, being his son, we have a
mutual respect, i think i'll get a burger.

i saw Lants go, and i plowed a field for sanity, sowing the
seeds of pride as i fertilized my hope with tears: thanks for
the money, honey.

here is a list of the parting gifts he gave to me:

roll of bread
geronimo's eye
fallen star
fork in the road
different time zone
dry clean gun
switch blade
boat pass
loaf of boss
tittie bar
geronimo's man-hair
cafe sign
peaks of mountains
a moment
bent hours of indifference
wagon trains
engraved glass with my name on
dip in the pool
H-block, 39931
jury duty
stiffled income
even clowns get sad
symbols of appreciation
tiny pink pillows
gladys knight
my very own mirror
i sat with my bag of stuff and looked long the tallest
horizon, without throwing the bag off the bridge, i was off!
and nothing bluer than serene could be seen of waiting
mammoths of future journies carried messages of truth on
their matted backs. i was going somewhere new.
somehwere good. somewhere plain.

i know so much more now, this can't be the day i signed up

for the lotto...


in this new unforseen calamity-fashion, i had a clear head

which was KLEER. me and Holy Me thought to ourselves:
this stardom dont happen every nite. "STOP 334"...."STOP
334". it was not time for an unaltered descent. jimclass
astronomy and field-rations suggested i was back to where
i started: The Winter of -90 AD and very much a virgin.

every now and then you get an asterisk column shoot down
your person. oh my god my darling horse. interesting
steeple in an unteresting song. hasbeen problematic mealz
git dirty in the suhnlight. press "5" for telecommunications.
13 + Thirteen = HAPPY FACE.

my suhn knews that.

in a skyscraper of yesterday, i pressed the elev8r buttons

from 4 through V. the ride i was taken on went phast. i
couldn't even hear Elvis. Then something inside my
climbed out like a patrolman. it was DJ Jesus Christ. a
massage couldn't keep me singing.

Me and DJ C. went to a fishing planet to watch [SPORTs] on

the run. every single tapestry hung seemed endless. i
somehow feel hungry. a glowing head may not be equal to
a mowing dad. that knows son my (even though weeve bin
thru that).


after a lapse in everybody's memory, we jumped up and

down in the water with locked pockets. originally afraid of
what i might find, i searched for everything. something
existing didn't break my concentration. you broke my
concentration, nobody knows that.
even if every car in the world were the moon, we'd still
take 8 minutes to arrive in rochester. delivering old words
is no job for a neighbor.