in a hilarious grave of fruit hides the wee gunfighter warm bottle of roominghouse juice in the rim of his sheep skin/ lord thomas of the nightingales, bird of youth, rasputin the clod, galileo the regular guy & max, the novice chess player/ the battles inside their souls & gloves being a dead as their legends but only more work for the living jesters-victims of assassination & dying comes easy . . on the other side of the tombstone, the amateur villain sleeps with his tongue out & his head inside the pillow case nothing makes him seem different/ he goes unnoticed any way.
dear Sabu it's my chick! she tells me that she takes long walks in the woods. the funny thing about it is that i followed her one nite, & she's telling me the truth. i try to get her interested in things like guns an football, but all she does is close her eyes & say "i dont believe this is happening" last nite she tried to hang herself ... i immediately thought of having her committed, but goddamn she's my chick, & everybody'd just look at me funny for living with a crazy woman. perhaps if i bought her her own car, it would help/ can you fix it? thanx for listening All Petered Out