that was the year...

that was the year that music sounded like the global digitalization of bird calls, tasted like mint. I hate mint. yet I buttered your bread. forced the crucifixion, emphasis on fiction. my liars. my needless vote written in crayon, once every two years to ratify the selling. here in california they have us connect the dots, an easier democracy, blind but built sturdy to build on top of the smell of old cigarette smoke machines. then, as you head out towards the beach along the park on the fulton 5, slipping into the fog, you imagine you could get off somewhere and get lost, like any other dog in heat.