E.E.Espinoza ([email protected])
Fri, 25 Sep 1998 18:11:42 -0500 (CDT)
the fabric never looked tauter, fresher, the creases
and folds in the right places, all the dry cleaning over
the years notwithstanding. [i'm]
the rubber ball's got a few less bounces, maybe, flat, but
still sincere. the blue skies after the storm (he reached
the shore) happy to host the sun, now, all the sweet without
the bitter, no ambivalence, no question, no struggle.
the voice labors to keep up, but the eyes aren't burning;
it's the afterglow: contentment, acceptance, peace.
fucking neon.
BUHT.
even edge sounds happier, obediently backing up. and if it's
the cabaret singer from hell coomin' oop, i'm moving to
las vegas. i want a dry kinda love. [losing]
there are times to stop the traffic and there are times to sit
quietly in it, waiting your turn. and if you can make music
while you're at it, you're da man. or the men. but not the boys,
no longer the boys, and if they're accepting, so am i.
[you] know i got black eyes? yeah. but they burn so brightly
for her. yeah. :) and, i guess, that's what's important here.
not the path less traveled by, not the beginning of some perceived
end, not even Art. they never knew what you were doing, anyway.
the four letter word, finally, unafraid to shout about it. if
only i could turn on fire and run. but i'm still crawling
in the straw.
'sokay, though. he's not.
sewing,
elena
*********************************
You see, I love that corny shit.
Bono (May 16, 1997)
This archive was generated by hypermail 2.0b2 on Fri Sep 25 1998 - 16:16:24 PDT