in these days the purple monkey has mutated into quite another beast.
more or less is here while the old remains the new always...
the only man who is not here is i,
who lives in the cork to be popped out
for the celebration of the bottle,
but carefully, so as not to break the glass,
while the gathering and the gatherer become the new past.
remember? it was i, and you wore pink callouses,
slapping the mud with your paintings of arcane mollusks and
insidious perfections, like the love.
forgot already? amen.
the road is a four-letter sword.
12.31.99
2000 bottles of beer on the wall...