Back in London the performance was spoiled.

Pearl’s harbor had no mice playing on the tracks.

Later, on the telephone with Julian, after Pere Lachaise, we tried to figure out the meaning of the cosmos.

We have never grown up but, at least, we can laugh about it.

A funnel of dreams spiraling through Ira’s homemade pipe.


Open, open, open for business.

Business as usual.

Business to guard the ship from sinking in the storm…

We leave chalk outlines in the glow of a burned out light bulb.

A certain glimmer turning more and more gray.

Same as the Parisian sky.

Same as the still birth drowned in her mothers poisoned amniotic ocean.

Gysin plays at the Louvre.

As if those monolithic figures were in dream time.

As if gypsy’s polish tarnished gold.

As if Notre Dame casts our sins into the seine below…

Lakshmi chips away at the catacombs.

Junkies shiver in the metro.

Living humans are sacrificed.

When I tried to pin him down he conducted an out of tune orchestra on my behalf.

I felt-




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