studio eight hub of words that feed
what a gorgeous January day here in my republic of my desire
I suppose Philip Marlowe was right about the big sleep
Even so, Saint Jack had a poor death
from the forlorn rags of old age
Who am I to judge another man's death?
I am dying my own
Lou Welch's rifle propped up in the corner of my bedroom
and I fall asleep like a baby with the thought of the sound of the click.
Poppa had his typewriter and a shotgun
Virginia had her friends and rocks in her pockets
Sylvia had Freud and a gas oven
I got nothing to make it through the day except my hypergraphia
but I owe my soul to amazon dot com
Oh lordy just give till 2023 so I can pay off my final expenses
In the struggle for the legal tender
I got it made. I work for peanuts
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"Skepticism is the chastity of the intellect" Santayana The Idea of Christ in the Gospels