Bad show. Bad night. Few worse feelings than not getting the laugh you expect and then reaching, grasping. The audience is smarter than you give them credit for and they can smell desperation. It's never their fault they aren't laughing. Never expect a laugh, always earn it. Go back to the game of the scene. Why was this funny in the first place? Back to the game. To the master plan.
I'm like a 14 year old girl with this comedy shit. I just wanna be liked. Most nights, we're liked. Loved. Tonight, the audience told us they thought we were better as friends. It smarts.
Ah well. Next week.
Damn. Also just realized tommorrow I'm gonna miss Sufjan Stevens at the Seaport. Somewhat alliterative but depressing nonetheless.
Tuneskis. My long-suffering CD player is broken. In an infuriating bit of senility it insists "No DISC" when there is clearly a CD in there, ready to spin. At first I thought it was only burned CDs, but no, it's the bought-and-paid-for kind too. I'm spoiled, too; one of the things I gorged on when I was home was music. I hot-glued my too-big headphones back together and got Limewire and iTunes and had myself a regular illegal-music feast, when I wasn't out drinking and listening to the Black Album or Kanye at Trevor's apartment or annoyingly changing the CDs in people's car stereos. I made mixes for Ashley and Chelsea and Taryn and burned myself copies of each, before that, I rocked hastily assembled rough drafts in my dad's car on the rare occassions I got to borrow it.
This now-dead CD player is the one that played me Elliot Smith's "either/or" which I cracked open on the plane to New York City in August, the first time I heard the opening strains of "Stars of Track and Field" off "If You're Feeling Sinister" waiting in the terminal for a flight to Pittsburgh (initiating my since-broken tradition of buying a Belle and Sebastian album before every plane trip). Sure, the battery cover was missing, making the backpack-rummage-for-wayward-Duracells a necessary pre-jams ritual, and she was all scratched up and you had to press the play button down really hard, but we had memories, man. We had times.
Now I'm strung out, music-less, reading this book Please Kill Me about the origins of punk, and more than anything I just wanna throw on "Raw Power" but I have nothing to throw it on to, listening to Iggy Pop in a subterranean computer lab underneath a business school just seems kinda...sacreligious.
Walking down the street singing quietly to myself is a poor and creepy substitute, and besides, you can't sing the beginning of "Scared Straight" by The Long Winters anyway, it's all horns and sunshine, and when I listened to it on the beach in Hawaii last summer 'cause improbably the Kauai Borders just happened to have the album, clouds rolling by, the whole of my young life ahead of me, realizing I would maybe get four or five or at the very most a dozen perfect moments like this in the rest of my time on Earth, well, the late great CD player was there for that, too.
Music is one of the few things I'm extremely passionate about that I can't also do in some capacity. I love improv but I do improv, I love comedy but I perform comedy, I love to read but I write. I'd be lying if I said I had no aspirations to someday be somehow musically proficient, but for now, it's sort of nice just to be a fan.
I'm babysitting this weekend, interviewing for another gig tommorrow, I'd run out and buy a new CD player, but that's money that could go toward an iPod, or one of its more reasonably priced bastard cousins. That's also money that could go towards Level II improv class, or towards, like, rent.
My life is ridiculously good right now, on the grand radar of things, this is barely a blip. It's just, there are a couple things a 19 year old male shouldn't be deprived of, and one of them's rock and roll, and when you deprive him of it, what else do you expect him to write about?
So I just bought an AC adapter for my laptop off of eBay for about thirty bucks less than I would've spent buying it from Dell, which is good news for reasons too nerdy to detail here (most of them involve not having to hang out in computer labs anymore when it's sunny outside) and what I realized is that eBay loves to send you e-mails. There's a couple when you sign up, one when you place a bid, another to let you know you're the high bidder, another to let you know you've won the auction, another which seemed to announce the arrival of the e-mail about having one from the auction, one about paying for the item, a couple from the seller (a shrewd eBaycentric clearinghouse for random computer junk) who wants my positive testimonial upon receipt of my cord, and one more today, twentyfour hours after the auction, just eBay wanting to like, check in and see how things were going. How's your summer? Good? Yes, I hear it's nice this time of year. Alright, I'll return to being a multi-billion dollar auction site now. See you around.
What eBay fails to understand is that when you've just gotten back into the city after a month's absence and your days pretty much consist of working out, intense and sporadic flurries of job-searching, rehearsing your sketch comedy show, sitting in the park and reading, wandering around, long stays in computer labs, and calls around to anyone you know in town to see if anyone is doing anything, the "1 New Message" indicator in your NYU mailbox is not taken lightly. It could be a lead on a job, it could be someone wanting to go see Ted Leo for free at the Seaport next Friday with you, it could be anything, a way to kill a few hours, half an hour, ANYTHING. Busy, productive people get a thousand e-mails a day of varying degrees of importance. I am not one of those people. Every correspondence counts. When I see "1 New," I'm expecting "new" like love in springtime, new like the technology to make interstellar travel possible, not new like, old.
Comedy News: Our show this week is part of UCB's "Sketch Weekend," ideally some industry people will be there. We have a sketch in Best of NYC Sketch Comedy show on Saturday, followed by a sketch in the Dirtiest Sketch in NYC Competition (skits about coat-hanger abortions AND a keg? How can you lose? HOW?). Our improv wing has a slot in the Del Close Marathon. Our show got extended into July, bringing our run up to an insanely great four months. Basically Hammerkatz owns the world, it is just more fun not to tell the world about it.
Let's say I put together a little book at Kinko's that was mostly poems (many book-exclusive, also featuring stories and pitchers and maybe a comic) and priced it to move at, let's say, like, five bucks, how many of you out there in Radioland would buy it? Don't try to talk me into/out of it, I'm gonna do it, it's just a matter of when, and it would be nice to know if you'd pick one up.
Also: start using the phrase "Coleslawesome" in your day-to-day life. I didn't come up with it. Brian Berrebi did. But it's all our jobs to make sure it gains superpopularity.
Distinguished Members of the Faculty Review Board,
It has come to my attention through various channels that in the course of my performance review this year, a certain remark which I made to a colleague in confidence has come to light, throwing into considerable jeopardy the renewal of my contract for the fall semester. The remark, which I am sure you all have read, but which I will repeat here to show that I understand the gravity of my words and take full responsibility for them, was in an e-mail to Prof. Zelner of the Biology Dept. on the afternoon of Wednesday, April 6th, shortly after the Appropriations Committee rejected my proposed budget for the fall semester. "I wish," I wrote to Zelner, "that I could turn the AC [departmental shorthand for "Appropriations Committee"] into zombies, for while their moaning, mob mentality, and hunger for human flesh would remain largely unchanged, it would at least be acceptable, nay, encouraged, to shoot them point-blank in the head."
I wrote this crack to Zelner in a fit of pique, with no, I repeat, no actual violent intent in mind. It was intended in the same spirit that one might, in a temporary rage-induced fluster, turn to a friend in the passenger seat of a car one is driving and remark that you wish the reckless driver in front of you would get "hit by a bus," or that a lackadaisical crossing guard would "be transmogrified into a werewolf so I could shred his canine guts with silver bullets I fire from a revolver I am holding in my right hand which is wearing a black glove embroidered in gold thread with the word 'Justice.'" The metaphor is not entirely apt; for one, I would not classify the distinguished Prof. Zelner and I as "friends," per se, we are more like amiable acquaintances. It would be fair to say I do not have many friends here at Crinsley; my more-than-ample friendmaking abilities and jovial demeanor won me many a comrade at Favre, my previous institution, where I was known as "Geez" or a handful of whimsical variations thereof, but at Crinsley I have elected to focus entirely on my field of study, at the expense of popularity. (The car portion of the metaphor does not hold up all that well either, I admit; if Zelner and I are in any car together it is the Car of The Department Of Biology At Crinsely University, and we disagree on which direction the car ought to go in, I think we should drive it to the Strip Mall of Progress and he would prefer to back the car into the garage and cover it with a sheet lest the neighbors see our marvelous and frightening piece of twentieth century technology and accuse us of witchcraft.) Why, you, distinguished member of the Faculty Review Board, are no doubt asking, would I send a remark which is begging so for misinterpretation to a colleague in whom I did not have the strictest of confidences? Quite simple: Zelner, being the most amiable of my amiable acquaintances, was the most trusted. My wife is, frankly, quite sick of hearing about zombies.
This brings me to my next point, a bit of biography without which I'm sure the e-mailed comment of the sixth would have been dismissed as little more than an understandable slip-up by a valuable and frankly underappreciated member of this institution's distinguished Biology department. The budget which I, Prof. Fredward W. Giesler, submitted to the Appropriations Committee late this March was constituted largely by funds to continue my research in the as-yet unexplored field of Zombification (a word of my own coinage the semantic elite have yet to acknowledge and the OED is dragging their feet in getting back to me about.) The Committee's main quibble, both the feasibility and desirability of developing technology which would animate dead human tissue, is one I have encountered ceaselessly throughout my many years as a lone traveler on the scientific path to zombiehood (another Giesler original, see above parenthetical.) My retort, which has remain unchanged through years of falling on ears with varying degrees of deafness ranging from "shortly after a very loud concert" to "Helen Keller shortly after a very loud concert," is that we must create zombies in order to prevent the creation of zombies. While I realize this argument seems ridiculous on its face, it is a rare scholar that could argue that the polio vaccine could have been developed were it not for the pre-existence of polio. In short, we must have zombies for research in order to be adequately prepared with effective medicinal and military countermeasures when Zombification technology inevitably falls into the wrong hands. It is possible, in a far more chilling scenario, that two major powers might develop said technology parallel to one another, much in the way some scholars speculate the written word developed in different parts of the globe in early times. On second thought, such a concurrent proliferation seems unlikely, since the incredibly intense and intricate concept of Zombification probably requires a singular maverick, some might say "mad" sort of genius to bring it to fruition. A situation in which said receptacle of enlightenment was driven from his homeland into the open arms of a hostile power homeland by, oh, let's say a petty, squabbling, and reactionary Appropriations Committee appears to be far more probable.
Forgive my rambling; you can see why my darling Cecile is more than a little ear-weary of zombietalk, no? The stated purpose of this letter is not to convince you of the necessity for further experimentation in Undead Studies (however, it is the purpose of my full-color pamphlet "Zombies And You: Use Your Brain, Or Have It Ripped From Your Skull And Consumed By Hordes Of Teeth-Knashing Necromatons," attached.) It is to show that my idle wish-in-jest that the AC would be transformed into zombies and my life's work making just such a transformation possible have little to do with one another. Like many go-getting career men and women, my work has an unfortunate way of seeping into the way I conduct my day-to-day affairs, including my manner of speech. I would describe it as similar to a former high school football coach making many football metaphors about his current day job, selling refrigerators. He does not literally want his underlings to "go for the first down with the newer, fancier Cool-o-drome models, instead of puntin' em a cheap ol' Duke of Frost," it is simply the only way he knows how to express himself. Refrigerators and high school football have very little to do with one another, just as the Appropriations Committee and zombies have little to do with each other, which, if the Committee would be slightly more forward-thinking, might remain true forever.
Thank you for your time and consideration, and I hope to see you in the fall.
Prof. Fredward W. Giesler
Biology Dept., Crinsely University
Coupla girl poems.
When she seems happy with somebody else
owned a store but I imagine
the pain is something like
driving by the place
(shoe repair or
a day-care center)
you’d run for years and seeing a sign
in the window
“Under New Mgmt.”
and knowing that someone
is driving down the same road
seeing the same sign
They say she got fucked with a shotgun.
“they” are girlfriends of guys in bands
part of a scene where gossip gets spread as fast if not faster than
mixtapes featuring artists selected for their obscurity
it’s not true but it grew
(extra arms and legs and a big lying tail)
out of a true story involving her
and her ex-lesbian lover
whom she met in a belt fight
and an unloaded gun
a pistol, not a shotgun
that never even went anywhere near anyone’s vagina
and there’s another story about how she blew up her apartment building
which is closer to the truth
except in the true version
the building doesn’t blow up
a fire gets started in parking lot rain puddles
thanks to a coke bottle full of gasoline
but is quickly stomped out by her
and her boyfriend
(who is leaving her
to work at a steakhouse
people recognize her on the street from karaoke
and think her alias is her real name
and she played Annie in a touring company when she was six
and when speaking she takes these wonderful
I’ve never met her
but I swear I didn’t make her up.
Huh. She nailed it.
It's like you know you have something inside you that's gonna make you different than everybody else and make you somebody in this life, but you wish you could figure out what it is, because at most things, you're either mediocre or really, really bad.
A Korean woman next to me in the computer lab just turned to me and asked me to grammar-check her e-mail. She had spelled permission "permition" and used the phrase "last year" at both ends of a sentence, which I noted, and a lot of her sentences were spaced out a aparagraphically, which I didn't. She didn't know what to put for the farewell so I suggested "Thanks." It usually works for me.
I am back in New York. All the trees got eighteen times taller in the month I was gone. It's warm. Back in
The answer: You're looking at it.
A more extensive update right around the time I feel like writing one.
I'm in the eye of a lot of storms this week.
Right now I'm in the eye of the finals storm. Justo the roommate and his friend studying for a chemistry final with a dogged determination to Get Things Right I could never muster for any subject involving kilojoules and angstroms, or anything involving books I didn't elect to read, now that I think about it. They are buzzing around the room comparing notes and talking about buffers and Hasselblads. They've been at it for hours. After not being able to get into a bar, I came home and spent most of the evening reading blogs. I rummaged around for change and got a Snickers downstairs. I'm waiting for them to be done studying so I can go to sleep. After all, tommorrow, I have to be somewhere at noon.
I've also been in the eye of the Going Home storm all week, watching flocks of people's parents and their cars with Pennsylvania, Jersey, New York license plates, grey wheeled bins full of appliances, moving trucks, turn my dorm into a ghost town, with tiny piles of free-for-the-taking things people can't fit in their luggage in the place of tumbleweeds. I participated in the flurry of activity a little bit last night, doing laundry and throwing clothes in my giant red duffle bag, in an uncharacteristic bit of forethought going completely against my ordinarily last-minute nature.
Wait, hold on. Saying I have a last-minute nature is like saying cotton candy has a sugary nature. I'm not prone to doing things at the last minute. I AM doing things at the last minute. It's my essence. I picture my fetal self waiting 'till the final day of the third trimester to develop arms and legs, fingers and toes, the sloppy thrown-together limbs accounting for my innate athletic ability, or complete lack thereof.
I haven't done anything for the past week besides eat, sleep, read, and rehearse.
Also, I went to Cornell, and was one person in a three-person eye at the center of a People Who Attend Cornell storm, to stretch a metaphor way too far.
So originally Dangerbox was supposed to go to Cornell and perform improv, opening up for Gregor's friends' band, as a sort of last hurrah for the original lineup before we went our seperate ways. (Cliche Count for the last sentence: 2. It was higher, but then I edited out "take it to the next level" for space and "pig in a poke" because who the fuck says that.) But one by one people dropped out, citing such lame excuses as "entertaining my visiting mother," "working for money I need to eat," and "finals." In the end, only three were left.
And they were as follows:
And Prosey McNarrator.
When I started this entry it was the 12th of May and now it's the 21st. I'm no longer in my dorm room in New York while some people study for finals. I'm back in Phoenix on my stepmom's sister (who lives with my family now)'s computer 'cause the one I used to use is permanently out of commission. I'm gonna keep going with this 'cause it seems like such a waste to lose this many pictures of me and comedy people drinking in Ithaca. Oh, yea. And Kanye West.
We drove for four hours. It may have been five. Gregor called his dad for directions; we didn't go the right way but then again, maybe we did 'cause we got there. When it has foliage, which it never does when I see it out of train windows and things, upstate New York is really very scenic. We got to Ithaca and parked our car outside Gregor's friend Mendel's house. Mendel's the one in the band we were opening for. And yes, they realize they are good friends with the last names Gregor and Mendel, like famed physicist Gregor Mendel (right? physicist? Googling it would take all the fun out of my ignorance.) They have probably heard it observed more often than I get "Haha, DC, like Washington DC," which I figured would pretty much drop off after sixth grade, not exponentially increase, like it has.
Then we went to the bar pictured at left. It was called The Nines, if memory serves, which it does, proving that we didn't drink enough that night at all. Although after our sketch bombed, we certainly tried.
But first things first. This place was a campus-hangout, pizza-and-wings-and-bands kind of place, which colleges apparently have. The phrase I use most frequently when visiting other colleges is "Hm, they really have these," whether I'm referring to quads or cavernous frat-houses, or in this case, a place where people drink cheap pitchers of beer and the ice bin is covered in stickers of bands who've played there. They do really have those.
You're probably asking, "All this musing on ways in which your over-expensive urban arts school differs from colleges where people actually learn things is interesting and certainly a topic you've never even begun to broach before, but what we really want to know is, did you take a picture of hilarious graffiti on the wall of the 2'X2' shack that served as this joint's bathroom?"
You have to ask?
We don't bomb very often. Dangerbox (improv) performed at a Relay For Life where we were seperated from the audience by the track through which people were walking (raising money for cancer and stuff) and, partly at my insistence, went ahead and tried to do a longform piece anyway. We were able to save it by shitting on the "show must go on" tenet, calling the piece halfway through the first incomprehensible scene, and doing some old fashioned shortform (Beastie Rap and 185) and generally being dirty as all hell on the mic. But this was different. This was bombing. We were authentically out of our element...ten feet away from what passed for the crowd (the place got packed five minutes after we were done) everybody who was there when we went on was sitting at tables and genuinely and forgivably puzzled as to what we were doing. We got some chuckles, but there may have been something funny going on at the pool table behind the stage. We weren't watching. We were too busy dying.
Fran and I adjourned to the bar, where we discovered that a pitcher does not care whether or not you were just funny. On the way to Cornell, Fran told us that Cornell has no hot girls. None. We didn't want to believe it. No way, we said. There's no way a whole learning institution can have exactly zero attractive girls. It's a big East Coast. And at the bar, I was getting looks from girls who, if this had been a disaster movie, would be the shocking initial incident everyone refuses to believe is proof of the scruffy rogue scientist's doomsday theory. No proof. Small sample. We watched Dan sing back-up for his band.
Spiegel's Always The Bitch (which, thanks to Cornell graduation, no longer exists at the time of this writing) are the practicioners of catchy tunes about The Olsen Twins, a Monster Ballad, and my personal favorite, a song about Kilby, the camel who went to school ("Kilby loves no one/he's a camel/he's a camel with no one to love") which I really need to find an mp3 of. They put on a good show, which was followed in short order by the grunge-rock stylings of Lithium, Cornell's premier Nirvana cover band. A Nirvana cover band seems like it's pretty much one of your only options as a front-man when it sounds like someone shit in your throat. Also, no one vibes Kurt Cobain's paens of apathy and disillusionment better than a tiny room full of rich-n'-boozy fratboys, apparently. And I say that with the utmost respect, considering fratboys were also our gracious hosts.
I slept on the couch of a guy named Gonzo:
Slope Day. Have I mentioned Slope Day yet? I don't think I have. Slope Day is a day between the last day of classes and finals at Cornell marked by two things:
1) a huge outdoor festival of music on the aptly named "Slope"
EPIC drinking. Drinking with intent. Early-morning, carpet-bombing, we-could-construct-reasonably-well-working-civilizations-with-the-effort-thought-and-resources-we-are-putting-into-beer-pong-and-ice-luges drinking. People argue about how early they're going to get up and begin the festivities, with those bold enough to suggest 10 AM shouted down as weak and ineffectual by those who'll be setting their alarms for eight. It's a thing to behold.
I awoke on Gonzo's couch at what I'm gonna say was 9:30 on Slope Day. Someone across the hall was playing Rage Against the Machine full volume. People were shouting X-treme things. I found Fran and Gregor. We joined the fun.
Mendel's house where we slept; Fran in the foreground. If it looks idyllic that's because it was. It was an insanely nice day and the house itself, as well as the neighborhood, were all really nice. They were all also owned by Cornell students and overflowing with said students, beers in hand, at this early hour. Good times.
Bender's house. Bender, the kid in the middle on the phone, is another one of Gregor's high school friends; his house was three houses down from Mendel's and across the street. The beer was better at Mendel's (Rolling Rock, Labatt, and free! All of it!) but the girls at Bender's were better looking. If you want to accuse me of being shallow after writing that sentence, you are incapable of fun. If, even once a decade, the greatest dillemma of a day is a choice between good free beer and prettier girls, your life is amazing, as I often suspect and accuse mine of being. We settled for walking back and forth.
Back at Mendel's: Someone decided sitting on the roof was The Best Idea, but before long it would play horse-drawn carriage to an even BETTER Idea, throwing shit off the roof.
Gregor: Somebody definitely made a "time flies" joke.
A real winner was going around, sneaking up on people, and going at their hair with electric trimmers, a la Jackass. The above gentleman without the headband did not appreciate the subtle homage. Things got heated.
We later learned that The Demon Barber of Ithaca was not actually IN school, but had graduated and was still living in the house. His occupation? We can only assume he's a professional Life Of The Party.
A large fella stumbled up from the street and insisted all slurrily that he had never seen me before. I agreed. He asked if we had seen his friend. We replied, not lying, that we hadn't. Moments later, he and his wayward pal were reunited. One of them proceeded to sit down and throw up. Embarrassed, he dragged his chair between a van in the driveway and the house after the first round seemed pretty much done.
Then his buddy pulled a chair up beside him and coached him through the rest of his hard times, in an touching and vaguely homoerotic display of camraderie. It was kind of like Of Mice and Men, only they're both Lenny and the "rabbits" are made of booze.
We watched all this safely from our Sittin' Wall. We may have condescended more than I'm doing now, but that woulda been hard.
Did we go to the Slope? Fuck yea, we did.
This is running rrrrreally long. If I had taken a moment to note every time I stopped and started this thing, like I did close to the top, you wouldn't get more than a sentence without seeing "Well, now it's June/now it's Tuesday/now it's much later on Tuesday" etc. The rest of it is not very interesting to tell and not really accompanied by decent pictures so here it is in brief: when we got on the Slope, Dilated Peoples were playing, and before long they were joined by Supernatural, purportedly the greatest freestlyer of all time (he was okay), followed by a long bare-stage period accompanied by Dave Matthews house music, followed by Kanye West's hype-man, who exhorted the crowd to "show some love, Cornell" and when he got hit with water bottles by assholes up front, insisted that "we just tryin' to show you love, Cornell, and y'all be throwin' shit," (I definitely need to get a job where I get to use the phrase "The ROC is in the building") then he left, then after a prolonged silence Kanye came out and did an amazing show, including a medley of songs he's produced but isn't featured on (every song on the radio in the past three years); he is, if you haven't heard, the best thing to happen to hip-hop since, well, me; purple-shirted volunteers roamed the crowds combing out passed-out people and handing out water; we chilled against the back fence, got food, and the next band, OAR, being too frat-rock for our tastes, we went back to the frat. Then we passed out.
At one point Fran asked me if she thought Gregor wished he'd gone to Cornell like all his high school friends. In his head, I said, he has an alternate-universe life where he went to Cornell, just like I have an alternate-universe life in my head where I went to ASU. And you're glad your life is what it is, but you can't help but wondering what that other life might have been like, for the simple reason that you'll never know.
Later, Gregor said something to the effect of "I'm glad we came." He'd never been to Slope Day. I agreed with him. For all the making-fun-of-drunk-people I've been doing, it really was a great, great time, a great show, good friends. "Now I know what it would've been like if I'd gone to Cornell," he said. I told him about the conversation with Fran, about my theory. It's important to keep in touch with your alternate-universe selves. Maintain an active correspondence with who you might've been. And, if you get the chance, visit them where they go to school. Drink their beer.
Some poems for your asses.
two black gunboats
full of gangsters
speed down a deserted
the other, chased
two men climb out the windows
to exchange fire
to put holes in the bumper
and hopefully, the boss
one hand on the trigger
and they could probably aim better
if they used the other one
to hold up the barrels of their tommy guns
but they need that
hand to hold their fedoras on
sure, they could throw them
in the backseat.
but they'd be damned
if they're going to
take their hats off
I scan the faces of people I see in the grocery store
at the mall
and in line at the DMV
and remember them
down to the last detail
for a day or two
if I can manage
because I figure a day or
is pretty much the statute of limitations
two gruff detectives showing up to my door
asking if I know anything about the whereabouts of so-and-so
whom security video shows I was getting gas
the same time as
and now she’s nowhere
I will be able to tell them
what song her car radio was
and whether she seemed stressed
on the run from the mob:
they say anything you can remember might be helpful
and the more I can remember
the more helpful I will be.
I hope strangers do the same for me
in the checkout line
aware of the fact that I might end up strangled
with an orange extension cord
at the bottom of a river
and they could help police locate
and speed the swift
application of justice
to my assailants
just by noticing the
curious way I loaded a can of
prunes out of my cart
how one New Balance sneaker was
I am a production assistant
on a Western
shooting in the dry nowhere
It’s my job to paint over graffiti
so in six months observant movie-goers don’t
wonder why the granite outcropping
where Shoehorn Jake meets his
untimely hot-lead demise
is telling them
Jose Loves Gisella 1994.