Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Saturday, May 26, 2007

remix, remix, and run

i'm running late to this conference i'm volunteering at

updates have been wonky, and i've been busy.

two days worth of things remixed into sonnets:

tin pan alley, remixed into a sonnet

boy, tin pan alley be the toughest: all
that whisky, wine, and gin. a woman screamed,
no hero, i just peeked around her door
poor annie beat down by a 2 by 4

then pistols shot – fat forty-fours – and no
one shot the pimp to save the girl, they shot
a gambling man whose dice forgot to count

“hey, everybody here be killin’! whisk-
y, wine, and gin!”
this cop all by his lone-
some strolled the lane. he stank like hussy per-
fume, hand upon his gun and he don’t stop
the shooters at the craps and he don’t stop
the bastard swinging boards. this cop dragged me
downtown like i was tin pan alley’s sin.


gambler’s blues, remixed into a sonnet

don’t claim to be no gambler, i don’t know
my dice from bones, but then my baby rolls.
know all of us how love goes? i’m down bad.
that blonde is my hard gamble driving me
to mad. was just a proposition first,
the good old give and take. then woman took
it all and i’m discovrin’ love’s no fake.

don’t claim to be no gambler, i don’t know
my dice from bones. but she knows who’ll be crap-
pin’ out while her sweet ass all come and go.
she left again this mornin’, didn’t both-
er with good-bye. some pretty girls, they love
you good, they never care ‘bout eyes. but i
still love my baby when she makes me cry.
my blonde be throwing sevens, and elev-
ens like a cheat. i’m feedin’ all these snakes.


right. i've gots to jet. see you at the international space development conference in twenty minutes!

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