I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas.
My fingers are Santa's little helpers.
My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments.
I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn.
Sisyphus, sweating uphill.
Bukowski,
scribbling away
in rooming houses.
A river always flowing.
I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Why...
Do old men smell like eggs?
When I'm old, I want to smell like pipe smoke and the cheap perfume of hookers...or maybe like the perfume of cheap hookers, instead. Yeah that sounds better, I think.
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