"Working woman. Storyville, New Orleans," says the caption, circa 1900, wall accordingly adorned with an unframed print of the running figures so much beloved and belabored by then-reigning Neo-Classicists and later inherited more or less verbatim by the neo-Neo-Classicist Picasso.
"Working woman. Storyville, New Orleans," circa 1900, at about the same moment that Jelly Roll Morton was inventing jazz in a Storyville bawdy-house,
and instead of Storyville, you might just as well call it "City of the Arts."
Do you need a thematic heat-pig?
Rivets for your trireme?
Panoramas of iodine and vomit?
Condescending innuendos?
Will you be my invisible friend?
I can't be your invisible friend!
I'm not invisible!
All I want is a basket of elderberries!
I can only pay with birdseed.
What kind of dream is this anyway?
This is absolutely
spectacular heroin, says the
motherly roadie for the Rolling Stones.
So what if we live in a brutal plutocracy?
All you really need is one good moment!
Think about your all-access back-stage pass!
Think about Michael Jackson embalmed in rose oil!
The least you can do is
smile for the fucking camera!
And meanwhile the right-wing is busy with re-districting and re-writing regulations and all the other business that makes all the difference between real change and bullshit.
I was born in Jericho.
My mother was a camel.
Later she emigrated to
Amsterdam and I became her informercial.
All five of my fathers are still paying alimony!
This is why I believe in Creationism.
Last week the Bureau of Labor Statistics labored and brought forth its monthly unemployment data, with the usual muddle of many-ways defined and undefined employment and unemployment, but the percentage of able-bodied working-age Americans who have a job remained essentially unchanged from where it hit the bottom in December 2009, and that's the non-story of US employment and unemployment in April, 2012, and every other month in 2010 and 2011 and 2012.
Boring dolls on the beach at Southampton,
phantoms on the autobahn...
You have your Mercedes.
I have my smut.
You have your pharaoh.
I have my snout.
Did you miss the punchline?
Did you miss the putt?
Can you hear the archaic harmony?
In the afterlife, everything is freeware.
You can't sneeze, but your icon can tango!
Tango of the neuronal war-monger!
Repeat after me!
I want to be a soldier.
I am the game.
I'm the winged tween of Troy!
So what else did you ever want to be?
Dybbuk of an unlucky multitude?
or just another
sad old drunk
in the jungle of mommy?
