Monday, December 13, 2004
she said she said
poppoppop: things are pretty. like you. no, man. the other you. first, put down the crayons, the New Yorker magazine from 1983 and those two wine glasses full of Zora Neale Hurston's memories and look up the word "ineffable". i'll be here when you get back.
the black ink of time sketches the solitude of history on ineffable tomorrows.
weekends were discovered by the French in 1735. and they were made like this: full of old James Brown records, dressed up friends, electric-pink scarfs, wine bars with Art History scholars, great Prom nights that came five years too late, empty rooms, honest talk about the Packers with math professors, not sleeping, friends from India, historicizing Wal-Mart's demise, Graduation events that resemble Beatlemania, sweeping the floor with two shiny shoes to Michael Jackson, green-eyed bandits with too much irrationality on their tongues, indiekids dancing to EPMD and the quiet beauty of change.
we can only go up from here.
