Today I’ve decided I wasn’t killed. No way. Never gunned down in some back alley like a rabiatic mandog who, directed by witty yells, is hunting for the lucky birds’ balls. No. Today I’ll stay ground level with nailed paws and a chest full of lead in which, somewhere, your name is ringing. Fingering through garbage years, regrettably fumbled receipts, sailing certificates to go on and on and on, I’ll hiccup my foam, lick your ear with what’s left of my tongue, once such a virtuoso sluggish grater of the all too ordinary. Today they’re playing these beautiful old songs I learn how not to finish your sentence