A Born Leftist Speaks
by Adam Gaucher
Sunday, May 19, 2002
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Once I've flown in from nowhere. The bright
white shadows flicker sickening. Some days I
tease the creatures. Some days they kill
me. Not in the same sense as
a monochromatic gray-scale emotion, but
America is history. It's inhabitants died
off somewhere in the nineteenth century;
along with their revolution. A wonton
execution of process continues. The
failure yet left dancing in the, what's
that Henry? "The clouds!" Two points for
the man in the red striped shirt!
His foot-prints take the lead. They're
defeating him as well! A crowd so
blind can't realize the impact here,
so they're leaving to catch the 8:05.
Tree's are funny when they drop
human beings; brushing the pests off
their jeans in the sunlight. Then again,
"I'm a squirrel! I'm a squirrel!" Bang!
Dreamy concussion (first prize).
Second goes to a three foot mahogany
bench for being quite an obscure object to
be placed aside Nick Drake's beating
heart. No need for worry. The heart
is well preserved in a jar just
outside of a small town in
England along side my brain which
escapes from time to time. A God
damned international superstar with scotch
tape and plenty of dollar bills. "Complete
the sentence moron!" It sits a
bruised fruit salad.