Even the lantern I hold up to the jutted flame is vicarious,
I mean if I don't do this shit why do I understand it so well casually like a game find the damned so glamorous
and all the fiends heroic at least the talented ones like mammies and jazz, mundane obscenities that spasm of our common myth, that's all the laughter and shatter I can lift in and live How talent invents trouble because we get bored with the thwarted neurotic trill of elsewhere and conform to that boredom as cowards and loud capital and that's what trouble is, a certain sound in the feeling having conformed to boredom to stump the soul a sudden mutation cattle run not like revolution, not courageous enough to bluff in circles but like space travel , quantum how our values make the money sad and profuse as a user settling his millions into the trunk of my father's better corvette and letting me watch my father get in, hostage to his opinion of what's happening again and drive into the ocean of my style this is my style afterall, my form — the seedy and shy way we take to the edge all lazily and intentional show out grow a habit to shout about the way I'm addicted to men at last to the power of speaking that longing that always grabs for a new name can celebrate the playful retina between experience and dream the way I mean to celebrate the fancy wreckage of all our flashbacks to have mercy on my shadow dear lord I believe you have broken titles and ties with the cold safety of omniscience to patrol the unknown for royal niggas mutter our names on royalty checks like a series of insults until we get it whole, and teach us to shrug like angels That's one theory
