Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Diamonds and Dirt


art spiegelman


I was typecast from day one. But at the same time I'm an original. Or was. She watched me like a hawk. Finally I said I was going out for a pack of cigarettes. Many years passed. The head honcho got on the blower to h.q. My type could be summed up in a word: crummy. Meanwhile, high above the city, a whole squadron of hawks appeared from out of nowhere, startling stockbrokers and messengers alike. It wasn't pretty. (I'm always saying that.)

- Michael Friedman

-t. moore

the fellowship of the buried lives
walks by the window of the
laudromat on 13th + a
i'm hanging out with old puerto
rican women sitting on the
bench staring at the spinning
wash like staring at tv
eating a candy bar, drinking coffee, smoking cigs.
a tall freak fantastic is pulling out frayed black frill
from the drier
what can/did/do i do--19 in town
i don't do nothing

don't ever leaf me

-Michael Friedman

The sun is a star, by the way. At the crest of the hill, we pulled over and "parked." Green mansion, blue angel. There's a difference between getting laid and taking out the garbage, ask anybody. I feel sexy, though, flipping through Details. But you can feel sexy and still be in big trouble. Not again. The sun approached the Earth with a certain panache. Then we pulled up anchor. So there you have it.


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