Also, I was through thinking about what I say or why, and have been for sometime. Perhaps you should heed your own words and not put on your fucking pretentious know it all mask like i'm your tag along friends kissing your molly wrist at the mall, I'm not your fucking dad either, so spare me your idea of a news bulletin, because it's neither here nor there, and is better left for a date with a Chip or a Skyler, not me. I'm a poet, I don't have time think about what I say, that's the reader's job. And personally it's not in my best interst to get involved outside of the medium with promoters, brilliant green peers or the Audience, so do excuse me.

Interesting, I never knew being whitechick was a given when not gay or Jewish. And it's not a nice poem, it's a pile of shit meant to read poker faces and no more, no less. By the way, 1984 was a for shit year full of bad tv, presidents that couldn't act let alone preside, and Sonny Crocket in bright cotton. No wonder you're observations are always sideways and prone to Asexual Rhetoric.

That's funny, I've always guessed that too.

yeah, i guess i knew that.

No one, I was tying myself all the while.

you and i, and the devil inside. watch for it to get better, much better, both the poem (rough draft) and the adulation. you know the screams will come. who'se to be the lucky band, and when? watch yourself-- you don't need the rope, you need the oxygen. whoever thought they would tie you?

Luck? No sweat. I'm a dandy at door to door work.