in defense of meaningless pleasure

She who cries without tears stands before the cameras and begs for forgiveness. I am in a generous mood, begot by boredom. Miss U.S.A. goes out drinking, blows a little coke along the way, and ends up with her tongue inside her fellow beauty queen Miss Teen U.S.A. on some dance floor in Manhattan. Moments of low inhibition and raging hedonism are allowances we make to those we celebrate, particularly one chosen to embody our blondest aesthetic ideals. We have -- well, I suppose we have not; a panel of free-agent celebrities has judged this young woman against our reproductive ideals and deemed her to be the finest in the country. It was Kansas this year, corn-fed and coal-powered, an old-fashioned gal from the Land of Tomorrow. She defines what is possible for the rest of us. If she can't let go and dance into the night, what and how much can we expect for ourselves?

AC

dogs

sightseeing

Never met a stranger I could not devour

A gallery of the divine

Foosed, Untied.

Short listenings of sundry guitars.
Oh, what a time you had.
Was it we? I was doing nothing
as always. You pictured the city outside
one hundred years ago,
when living on top of one another
meant something,
but inside the blank walls
did nothing, said little.

Until you close the window
softly now,
let's not wake
the downstairs baby,
close the window
to concentrate the vision
of red brick walls,
we may never -- shh,
let's not wake
the downstairs baby.