stagnanTVowels

Trash from the dry streets lingers here in the grass You're going home Second City. Gonna be a princess... That's right, pretty little tsarevna. That's you Second City. The purple flocked poster over the urinal is tattered with staples and dry gobahgoo. There's a big ol' smiley face in the middle. Puff, puff, puff goes the nose. My fingernails feel like they're slipping off a little bit. My foot's bent up underneath me and its filling with sand. The girl in the stall beside me is throwing up. That or she's talking to some really deep deep sheep. What's that Second City, Second City, if it can't be done then it can't be done yeah no... That's so not so here in New York, New York, New York. The place where Crocodile Dundee slept and Washington ran away from. See my I-Heart-Tee-Shirt Second City, Second City. Now Get the fuck out. Uncle Russian Cowboy stuffs his cotton shirt back in his pants. blahblah, blah, blah, blah... U...

In the ways of Steve, bad is in the key of cowards... I like the slastratten when it's fresh and playing from flat speakers. There in that moment, it sounds like fuzz rolling over some fat Mayor's sleeve. My record player is old as my sister and as orange as plastic. It sits on my desk with a bowl of shells and odd bits I found in the field behind my school. I like to sit here and listen to the record player go or to read something from one of my shelves. Really, no one could be happier. No one could like being inside as much as I do. But if someone did, then it must have been in '66 when they first read, The Way Home from Mars. They two of them were lost. They needed help before they could make a difference and Buzz, The Ultimate Johnson was going to set them straight. "This is a democracy for leaders Mary Mac," he said, his eyes glinting. "There'll be no lip gloss where we're going." My ball glove is on the bed beside me. The leather sm...

...scratched knees on palm suffering drunkard nights. Our drafts are saved autoly. Corrosive Dee'n Agents reminding kids of our spilled evil in their marrow. Better than color its Black n Dubya, sifting the trim end of life with a hammers wit, all golden and viral when we meet. Genes in hand, knees in broken denim and a sloppy pour too near the bed. Todo... Todo... little house, red.

"This house is old enough for all of our mothers party's," John agrees enthusiastically, it's like he's suddenly a ticket to a holiday box that's filled with slander, audacity and many shades of pink. He's poking inside of a brown box that's sitting in the front room where the wood paneling seems to hold the windows just enough, but somehow they still manage to slip around. Then he announces to no one at all, "it's an old place!"  The sofa's stained enough to match it's broken state, where it's arms were once pious, the center now sags brazenly and there's a  suggestive sense of elopement or worse that's creeping over what remains. All of the walls have been tanked with drawings and incidental paintings are on every other kind of surface around the room. There's even bits of curling paper that are hanging from filament that's strung from muslin hanging overhead, like it's the ceiling's second skin...

For sweet sweet Otto, With death from above George is large and as whole as an entire room of Benjamin's he sniggered softly to himself. I hope he let's us have the eggplant in the French room again? Please, god no, Random turned and shook his head. Look company or not what about that Rothko. The one that's in the passage outside, He asked.  Let's switch sides at least, He suggested. This whole campaign is making me uncomfortable now. Plus, On the train. Now that's for Heroes. What an unfortunate name? Poor kid can't even shorten it.the only Otto I know is the bus driver for the simpson's. and Anne franks dad. he was named Otto. what? Anne frank her dad was named Otto. what. you know the little girl that died in world war 2. see it's the 18 hundreds all over again.

The Hopper from the Lac to GloryHollow is straight all the way. The Hollow sets in the soggy bottom land about 30 miles from the big river. There's hills and tree's and birds all around it's high wire fence. The Hollow is a single simple construction with long low lines built up from the local sandstone the lime and and mineral resins. The worn photo’s from back then make it look washed and green with a pale flag on it's top. For contract work the nearby villages were turned out. After that the Neoists sent couriers further down the river to gather every green sleeved grant writer and sling armed accountant they could find. Once the shape was sketched out the whole thing went clickity-quick. Soon enough the first truants moved in.

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