Detroit Sock City is the name of the mix I made for my brother today. He will be flying back to the Motor City the 30th, so before that, we need to go to San Fran even though that isn't palpable with monetary considerations thrown in the gumbo known as Christmas '02. I believe pasta is on my itinerary for the evening.

ROCKET FROM THE (FUCKIN) CRYPT ROCK (!), there is no easy way around that, so bow down to the asskicking to ensue. Yes, ears will bleed. Yes, tender young ladies will take off their sun dresses. Yes, the ground will shake like hips, littered with flower print. Yes, heads will bob so hard that chins will be cracked open by pavement. Yes, it is that time. Let us rock, my children...

yes light your eyes deaf from irrate men in hot little hats of smelling heavy war tar went down from the wharf rats scurrying just quietly enough for dog eared boys

That string of chaos was product of no forthought, which is too rare in writings these days.

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