They came down from Carson City. A few travelled on the backs of bears.
Some made home between the panels of pages, tunneling to China through a piece of paper with self-reflexive VIGOR.
I came in where the story went strange, "Saturday's Alright for Fury" was promptly placed behind me, as the title came on while I broke my way into the SFMoMa to pee on some paintings. Quiet night on the east garden letting the wind manhandle my mad nakedness. Then I thought about all that jazzy new material I had set to be READ ALOUD by someone dressed just like me (same face, same hair, glasses, everything) pretty darn soon.