"They won't attack us here in the Indian graveyard."
I love that moment. And I love the moment when I climb into your warm-smelling
bed-dent after you've risen. And sunflowers, once a whole field and I almost crashed,
the next year all pumpkins! Crop rotation, I love you. Dividing words between syl-
lables! Dachshunds! What am I but the intersection of these loves? I spend 35
dollars on a CD of some guy with 15 different guitars in his shack with lots of tape
delays and loops, a good buy! Mexican animal crackers! But only to be identified
by what you love is a malformation just as embryonic chickens grow very strange
in zero gravity. I hate those experiments on animals, varnished bats, blinded rabbits,
cows with windows in their flanks- but obviously I'm fascinated. Perhaps it was my
early exposure to Frankenstein. I LOVE FRANKENSTEIN! Arrgh, he replies to
everything, fire particularly sets him off, something the villagers quickly pick up.
Fucking villagers. All their shouting's making conversation impossible and now
there is grit in my lettuce which I hate but kinda like in clams as one bespeaks
poor hygiene and the other the sea. I hate what we are doing to the sea, dragging
huge chains across the bottom, bleaching reefs. Either you're a rubber/gasoline
salesman or like me, you'd like to duct tape the vice president's mouth to the
exhaust pipe of an SUV and I hate feeling like that. I would rather concentrate
on the rapidity of your ideograms, how only a biochemical or two keeps me from
becoming the world's biggest lightning bug.
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