someday, in a dream coffee-house in a park or outside a rave, I'd like to finally meet myself: size me up, get a good look in the windows of my soul (the eyes beneath the eyes,)
the sweet blonde waitress lovely body, sparkly eyes free salty soy beans California rolls I order, with some sweet drink my waitresses' fave the clang of chefs' knives
After coffee with my dad, I feel asleep on my blue air-bed, and commenced a long sleep and dream of endless hallucinations, books shifting into other books, rooms of people shifting
The world is full of people who aren't doing things they'd love to because they can't, it isn't done, it can't be done, and they aren't good enough to do it Well,
Do I love America? no comment but this is true: i AM America My blood is centuries of America: farmers, soldiers, sailors, and sales-people, scrappers, survivors, and do-it-yourselfers