coney island of the mind

Oh it was a spring

prufrock

we have lingered in the
chambers of the sea,
by sea-girls wreathed with
seaweed red and brown,
till human voice wake us,
and we drown

-t.s. eliot

infinence

i see no harm in mexican food and a long walk after dark. can i not take my time on the Path toward the Infinite? am i not allowed a little subtlety in life?

I need you just as you need to not understand this just as much as the leaves need to continue to fall off the trees so someone can please sweep them off the streets every Thursday between one and five. Is that not the Path toward the Infinite? Existence? My flash of the subtle.

lou reed is dead

i have prepared the eternal typewriter.
but in my fears, we will not look back as our houses burn to the ground
and we have rescued our children and our internet and our mortgage
but not our pens. and not our keys. and not our american flags.

rueful, i will step inside amongst fiery ruins of my 1988 citzenship which i have yet to revise.
rueful, i will sell all my records.
rueful, i will telephone lester bangs.

lou reed is dead.
mick jagger is not.
david bowie is married.
and conor oberst is not my saviour.
But The Flaming Lips have taken Acid, I think we will be OK.
(if this is good enough for god, then i am ok)
and i am cool.