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Naily Tunes,
I am skip rattle and pop to the blog spot. Here me tic tac toe a tiny formation of a stardust castle known to the Kingdom of Nailclippers. A burst of bubble drop hair pins scattered on the grass. Here me chew sharp cheddar lipstick at every Hail Mary recitation on the 405 highway switching lanes at a rate the eye skims a thesaurus. At the Paul J.Getty in Los Angeles, Carlos and I are two giddy drunks disinterested in art and skip the show for a charade of Pimm tonics and award winning mussels. We walk around the pomegranate garden feeling like marathon winners against time having beat out all the dinosaurs that once roamed that great Los Angeles County basin. From off the Bel Air cliffs i can see my house, from off the Bel Air cliffs I can see Lord Byron's Lake Geneva. At In-N-Out Carlos briefs me on current LA poets over protein cheeseburgers all dipped into the mouths of East LA bodies all shaking rattling and rolling. Give me God or a t-shirt. Either one will do. What is this TV sandwich lust programmed in me since childhood? I think we should trade our Mayan numbers because obviously mine is a mistake that's tricked me into a second MFA program in a happy land of snow glow. Fuck. I am happy today. I am walking around white Buffalo snow like a fucken black bold font that spells out Happy. See me ice skating across the pond with razor sharp GPS strokes in one daguerrotype blink. Damn we really don't exist anywhere, or do we. If I have to pillow fight my way through reason, you better believe I will.
Thomas Clip Edison
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