an indentured figure walks along beside this slip of stream When the imperfect poetry of history transiting towards an undetermined mathematical fate is good enough for the day. When its a dry evening with bad grammar and the smell of old teeth flying around and I'm thinking of SV, thinking of repeating myself again. When I remember our arrangement around the snag of the leaf table. How we talked with speed and elegance about how to manage the next segment of our show. How we had the paper and the time. How we had the pencils and the stack of experiences that were high enough to include the kitchen itself. Then I think of the old man inside each of us and I remember the way that he stepped on our heads and pissed in our ears. Then I try and remember this too, BOMB SHOP....