thereæš¯ a bright white light
to shine shine on all the dim bulbs in the crowd tonight
and thereæš¯ a thin yellow line to separate the fast lane
and thereæš¯ a man i know,
heæš£l take apart your engine if you ask him right
letæš¯ empty all the minibars and leave this town in flames.
heæš¯ starving for attention, she’s swallowing her pride.
bitter gall for bleeding ulcers, att-tudes you canæš° abide.
a sentence fragment city, a poor excuse for a life of crime.
this is not a road picture, we are not amused (or surprised).
you donæš° need a p-ssport to know what state youæš®e in.
she wore barrettes of many colors in her many-colored hair.
thatæš¯ not the point–they only notice what you wear.
she said, “the moon is a toenail,
the stars are a guardrail, my heart is a sandpail…
and youæš®e toluca lake.”
stop the traffic! bend the time!
weæš®e heading into territory
too ugly to explore (but theyæš³e both been there before).
he quotes nathanael west.
she tries her best, but canæš° find a mouth to grin with
æ…ause a tragedy requires a little greatness to begin with…
you are i’ll wind, you blow no good;
a p-ssant under gl-ss, an airport neighborhood.
earthquake survivor, feral youngsters smoking tea.
spit in your hands and see you splinter every tree.
culver city! beachwood drive! vesper avenue! hey hey!
the needle on the radiator rising as the road inclines.
the scene is going nowhere fast; heæš¯ shooting highway signs.
she carves her sorry epitaph, a carjack fever scrawl:
“if you only live in movies maybe you donæš° really live at all.”
you don’t need a p-ssport.?