Friday, August 01, 2003
Panic until the last stop before the subway derails into a pack of erudite pelt-wearing strippers scraping gum off the walls and making statuettes of ex presidents. Cherry flavored and dripping through the cracks in the ground to the under, under, underground where homeless and prophets sleep. Friendly rats scuttle through my toes and someone holds a pillow to my mouth. Three shots and they're dead. All of them. All nonsense, of course.