Monday, November 08, 2004
throwdown.
you are invited to a Republican fundraiser.
dopey and cross-eyed: that is our new democracy. but far prettier and sex-smelling is the abstract space our country has become.
not so similar, and on the cusp of actually being news (only when that elusive vote is needed), those brown people cluttering borders and sweeping kitchens are a bit more complicated than you think. who knew the subaltern wore boots?
its like being in Spain, cigarette dangling from my 55-year old mouth, watching the tiny dreams of leaves drizzle onto the eyelashes of concrete coating the ground.
it's like being places and not even knowing it.
(if you don't measure yrself, time will--as my grandfather used to say.)
non-bespectacled and embittered by the frail cold weather doing the Hammer outside my apartment doors, i realize that the quiet protest against gas stations and dead love notes thrust out of windows is, well, an essay. more on this later.
but the truf is always wearing a lab coat, son.
and art galleries in small texas towns deserve bulbous amounts of federal funding for their audacity, joy and cold ability to exhibit cartoons in macabre sexual positions. Kerry, what happened? cartoons, man. cartoons.
