HOW THEN ARE THERE
NAMES FOR EVERYTHING?
The science of clamor apparently knows
no ends. Nails for horses and ink for pens.
Bindings for books and bindings for sex.
The astronomy goal and the astrology hex.
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It started way back in Eden. Ohio, that is.
Just a small place on an accelerated map :
the kind we call township now, and all that.
-
A group of punk kids and their Muscatel,
peddling bicycles, just hanging around where
Eden Ridge Road meets Rt. 124. 'It's all we
got to do, 'round here anymore.'
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Ronnie Swales says, "Heck, if the Devil itself
came by here, I'd probably follow. It'd be
something else to do anyway; and I can't get
no job, leastways nothing good. My girlfriend,
she works at Chicki's - sandwiches and stuff.'
-
Parker Hines butts in, 'Swales, you're lyin'. You
wouldn't work a God-damned day if it was freely
given to you double-time. I seen you lie, and I
seen you tryin'. Mister, don't listen to him, he's
a'full of it all. And he ain't got no girlfriend either.
And if'n he did, you think he'd be wastin' time
here on a damned bicycle? C'mon!'
-
Maybe they both have a point, in a place like
this - it's not what you do, more just what you
say to the people who will listen. Put names
even on mud, and it will start to glisten.
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