Lay Off the Mushrooms.

Hey kid
There ain't nothing to scare these days.
You know, I once tried throwing tennis balls at pigeons, but it didn't
work. So I had to sing Happy Birthday to my mother's friend's pitbull.
He was irritated, so I took off running, but he was faster, so I had
to scream bloody murder and climbed the tree, although the birds were
kind of scary.
Then again, my floorlamp's called "storm" and I put it on the nightstand.
Ever heard "Needle in the Hay"? It's good, and very drug-tacular, so
fits the scene of fourth avenue gutters, without the Tucson weather
and maybe with some snow added.
My wallet got fat, so I put it on a diet of rice and crackers, with no
mustard or ketchup - horseradish only. I should take out all the
receipts for things I never really thought of buying, but who knows
these days - maybe the war will start and I won't have a bottle of
Clinique perfume. There will be no getting it then, so I might as
well.
The volume on my stere is reversed. Ten is louder than fifty. It's
irritating, just like not being centered in movie theatres, if you
know what I mean.
We were once dipped into arguments daily, but then it switched over to
repetitious discussions that seemed new, but they really weren't. We
knew it too. But admitting something like that would just be
inappropriate.
When did we become so nice?
I've got to admit though, birdwaching to me is pretty similar to
armwrestling with pub-goers. I can't even fake my identity.
Time to move, and I'm still sitting on top of my blanket, fully
clothed, save the shoes that are missing, and my hair is desheveled. I
should take care of that.
Frank Lloyd Wright was one crazy bastard, let me tell you. He built
things, and people lived there, like it was nobody's business. I want
living arrangements for eight months from now. Wait, nine. Maybe ten.
I don't even know. The point is, I want them, god damnit.
Gotta, love those Passion plays. They're amazing, in that orange beret
sort of way.
Gotta skip now.
Hello to the rainforest on the Irish coasts, and the jungles too,
gotta love the graffiti my darlin'.

Response by Claire Shefchik:

Today is my birthday, but then it was not, and I didn't expect to spend it with the French tonight; cosmically linked to my mother's womb. We don't keep good relations with the public around here; we don't consider it fair. I think good description for the governor of Virginia is "smarmy." I don't remember what it was like back then; aloft; adrift. In fact, the only things I know right now are that Virgil enjoyed eating mangosteens and that the president has never visited Antarctica. Soon I will demonstrate how much I love clubs (but really I prefer pubs.) And Larry Pruitt is missing. Too bad it isn't Rory.