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9.17.2005
Somewhere old heroes shuffle safely down the street
Where you can speak out loud
About your doubts and fears
And what's more no-one ever disappears
You never hear their standard issue kicking in your door.
You can relax on both sides of the tracks
And maniacs don't blow holes in bandsmen by remote control
And everyone has recourse to the law
And no-one kills the children anymore.
And no one kills the children anymore.
-Pink Floyd
/Howard was in town so Jay threw a party. Funk music drowned Kill Bill in groove. I sunk into a revolving black arm chair and sipped a beer slowly. Gray amorphous flowers bloomed from cigarette butts. A garden of smoke growing from lips. All the gardeners drenched in the fragrance of their breath. And I too, sipping slowly because I can scarcely stomach the taste. Naively the bear cub tests the trap, presses his paw to the steel teeth, a prick is allures before the metal jaw tastes blood. The temptress need not be beautiful so much as exotic. A promise for the pilgrim. And Uma Thurman painted walls with blood. Sprayed like sprinklers in the lawn. Her lips moved but masked in funk. Revenge, I knew she said. The blunting hum of voices imperceptible. One mass of sound, like a hive of bees. Don't let cognition kick in, just rest in the sound. Like a wise Buddha resting amid the chaos, not I, but the bong on the coffee table. A circle evolves around a pipe, pass around. I'm not in the mood to cough my lungs up tonight. I'm no good at smoking or mingling now. Droov was wearing a Pink Floyd shirt./
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