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Wednesday, July 21, 2004

today Bruce Springsteen met the end of the ocean. the headlines settled in nineteen eighty something, at the peak of someone's power. aliens as redeemers put a few jokes in the scripts, and we thought how great the tide of music could be. you know you loved the Red Hot Chili Peppers, because they meant what they said they would sell. Madonna's happy tune drove home a fact, Time Magazine in the yard of our Lord nineteen something something. we were ready for fun, stymied rarely with cases of whichever way to turn. not that music matters, not that our better half doesn't war it in the Arab countires, not that angels need us mainly. it's just so great to have this, and divide, and the container for the day contained. Bruce Springsteen and the career at home, the poetry alone, the sentence brushed, and what's in store...

Comments:
Today I am listening to your American Guided by Voices while tweezing my noise hairs and your method actor, faking it until the thin scrim of industry falls into scroffulus detente. I had a cosmo-naut's revelation of "where to touch him." I was through fighting on those barricades, turning into a wet monogrammed dishrag that supported live music. Problem? No curfew, the deranged Tony Danza head looming in the door, less homelike than unhopeful, as a carol-singer fades into pixels when you peel the onion.
 
personally, I was told thinly discarded membership ran high amongst those teasing our friends, who included but did not resort only to B Springteen and load's dynamite and that other set of creatures. I had it in range and feeling peculiar, some people having names, others just a distance from nearly famous. the authentic was almost a crowd, worth repealing perhaps, but maybe all we've got. hence the simple assumptions, all of it in code...
 
That's what MY therapist said! That we should all turn it into a protectionist racket, with headbands and each to his own "Born in _____." In red square, or in pardon-my-smelly pieds. I never got into the virgin Madonna thing, dredging up hope from your cell phones through an alienated toe fungus discussion. I can see your house from here! Hardening arteries for sure, I was eating your American Pringles. In fact, I stayed up all night chewing over them, and in the morning I awoke to instant Pop Art. Then I went down the street and bought a Slim Jim, as a wail rises up from a throng in search of engine music.
 
of course, your therapist built an American bundle, it's the weight of gravity being serious, no matter how hard one fights. doesn't mean that your nose hairs need your condiioned attention, just that scrofula doesn't fool around with the arch set. consider the dope and its provenance, the risky popular vote that loves cheese, those sediments of pure panicky poetry flops, the entire gimme ranked as assassins in a delirious topic sentence, and the props of allure. exactly what's left in the smelly barn beyond the next hill? everyone says they know, but they only draw sloppy pictures of intent.
 
It's mysterious, the future, like a red-hot layer cake about to explode. Deliriousness is all well and good until The Boss whips out his thing and begins strumming at it again. One should not put down the mass cheese-eating demographic, particularly if one enjoys wolfing down the occasional fragment of brie oneself. Vous me faites rire avec la discipline intellectuelle, Andy Warhol in overalls. See, the problem was the slipperiness of the intended message, like a hoax lodged between two matching flipflops. Je n'ai pas une scuzzy pipe.
 
luckily intellectual discipline arrived in the mail today. just barely, the thought of taking on the threads of attention while remaining able to talk of coffee snacks. my language did this to my country. follow the flow, or whatever comes to brightness while the jerking dance becomes numero uno in treasure moment, hahaha. if I need Jack Spicer's advice, I'll make it up. my Red Hot Chili Peppers love my Madonna, and that's enough while I'm counting my change. Bruce S simulates or stimulates, I'm never quite sure, and the antics remain embedded. it's that much of a career just to tell people you are moving.
 
But celui-la is just Lenin's big toe; the rest of him fell on the ground over there! Your presidents, jackalopes, and other mythical figures of authority hound me nightly. If we all group together like the depsitory of your chili lights, who is happy? J'ai pense que someone might have been "speaking through me" though this was in fact just a premonition of the flatulence. Next to a workingman's stretched gut, the evening collides with a cheap naturalism like meat. Parce que your billboards and flashing sales tags confuse and disorient me, I must act immediatement on impulse! Il ne marche pas, to speak of "comeback tours" in this way.
 
in English, the rest of the world falls apart. in English, full of American stump and lode, the gestural looks too creamy. wouldn't an age need something specific once, without elongating the past? Bruce Springsteen was over in a minute, in a year that collected quickly, but a recording impression stayed in dull concern. our various sentences work in reverse at times. there could be a full career at home someday...
 
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