Tuesday, July 21, 2009


If you wake up slowly, the world moves very quickly, and you are predisposed to think that everything, moving so fast, everything must have muscles. Well, everything does. The world is a muscular place filled with grunting and heave-hoing and sweat streaming down its, yes, muscles. Your muscles, I am talking to you, Chevy Camaro. And you, Superman–no, not Superman proper, but Superman word balloon. And I LOVE YOU, the one you hear outside the coffee shops? Just filled with muscles that fade woefully in the mist like tapered erasures on a foggy New England night. Where else? Mighty muscled sneaker, wild and strong billboard, Bazooka chewing gum tough, powerful Johnny Horton’s Greatest Hits, tough ass Vaudeville piano playing, sinewy skeletons bleached white, fast twitch cotton candy, hard core Theda Bara and ripped pecs of guns of course, yes you, you, my love. Sometimes in fact I think that the only thing in the world that doesn’t have muscles are my muscles, carrying you or me off to bed, old and dead, everything I have, you, and something I should have done ages ago, before the world got so ridiculously strong.

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