And here I dreamt I was on Stage

Welcome to the new life, and what a carnival cracked ride it is, clamming up with consonance at the merest sign of stuffiness, we build ourselves up to be worth the time self-destructing.

The calls progress everyday, marching like cellphone drum beats to an unseen chorus, an apartment, life, disappeared into hollow ground, that slow sucking chest-wound, hemorrhaging money on beer and unpaid bills, spills and coasters not-withstanding.

You want to know your options and you coo over them like asian babies in photos for adoption, protection money gleaming it's wicked way through pants pockets to make a batsignal towards . . . what?

I know this all may seem trite to you, like the elaborate paintings of Dali, to be interpreted with a snap of the wrist or without eyeglasses.

Philip Roth in his stained boxers with wine libels demands it. He and I stand here demanding judgement, because we just can't wait much longer. Give us our weight, our measurement, and nothing so meaningless as two pounds of flesh, I'm not jewish anyway.

I'm not judging you, I'm judging me.