Strip of the Hollywood Freeway staring up at exhaust-sooty pigeons amidst the flapping ruins of Botany 500 call me Ishmael. I am a semen. - Can you do it? She asked shrewdly When the worms begin their midnight creep and the dew has sunk white to milk the grass. . . And the bitter tears Have no ducts The eyes have fleshed in. Only the nose knows that A loser is always the same. There is a sharp report. It slices the night cleanly And thumps home with a tincan spannnng! Against the Speed Limit sign... read more
