Saturday, January 25, 2014

4977. TO WHERE THE MOON IS NOT A PLACE

TO WHERE THE MOON 
IS NOT A PLACE
Milk makes the Milky Way, but lactose intolerance
somehow kills all that. The policeman took a header,
tumbling down a long flight of stairs. Something about
a safety keeps a gun from going off. I am reminded,
immediately, of that scene at the end of Taxi Driver,
where de Niro's guy goes ape-shit and splatters all
those walls with blood like an instant Nestle Quik moment.
I remember Scorcese saying it had to be toned down in
color, the studio guys got too nervous with all that red so
they turned it more brown. Oh well. Get with the program.
-
Here I am. Alone again, naturally. When that song came
out I had an outhouse with two adult seats and one child's
seat  -  holes of certain size cut in the planks. It was cool.
My grandmother came to visit once, from far away. She
went into the outhouse, to see what it was like, and  -
unwittingly  -  walked into something that resulted in like
a hundred bee stings to her head and face. She screamed.
She thought she was going to die. She was yelling :
'Take me home! I don't want to die here!'

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