Dogs

Write that book, saw that play, bailed that hay, inside the boat there is no upside right. The moth to the light determined the way north, my hand on the rudder is the only sound I hear. Made of wood and stare at starry skys. Lost ways and slow running clocks are not marked in the journal. So the pages blow rife with empty. And the day starts anew. But the compass must still point ever which way. Dogs? Dogs.

Brendan deVallance at the 

Morgan Street Expo, Chicago. 

September 11, 1983

Burning

I've been going through the archives, scanning into the digital realm. There are a lot of loose ends in the shape and smell of red herrings. Here is one, I'd say this is from the early 80's.

Do not

Do not live. Do not, the world is an evil place full of godless heathens or worse. And the mark up on the cost of your life on this hurtling rock shall not quench the thirst of all the days the universe has ever known. The knife in your gut, yes that one, the one you placed there is not unlike the plug in the full cold water bathtub. You want to pull it out, need to, you do not. You live, you live another day, oh look the wound has healed.