47. "no one stayed on the fairgrounds to admire his work after nightfall"
47. June 18, 2010 (Fri, day off b/w nyc & evelyn evelyn shows)
You big ape! Talk radio wakes me. Betting on salad dressing
for marinade, gambling on cricket-- recipes these Grampa Yahs
don't understand. The sun is coming up, a runny egg horizon
30 miles, trundling towards home with Terrorence Bear
driving. (Why he put up with my gopher night vision, i'll
never know. Dumbo octopi, however, may explain it, their sweet
fluttering fins...)
*
The big cat skips the snubbing (left alone for 20 hours while
we cavorted like escapee animals from a decaying carousel) and
she stamps, You're Mine across our sleeping chests, ice tray comforters
through the dead lizard, desert part of the day. Decadent delivery appears,
reappears, rice to be eaten one grain at a time, pawed at between poems
written in slow motion. When did we reasonably wake as tropical birds today?
My last night is missing, all i remember are Brooklyn dodos
(po-lice) and construction detours, brilliant orange plumage
warnings, emergency pull offs, you wanker.
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