The SLC is a small town in regards to art. If you are an artist, if you attribute yourself such a goddamned title, you know just about every other one; it's sickening.
The mass conglomeration of hipsters in this town constipates me to an ever-lasting degree. My brow attached to their strings - a perpetual down-ward tug. Call me... Scowl.
These streets are filled w/ bouncing cadence memorized for the imminent foreclosure of the soul - while being young is still hip. These streets, in all their beautiful glory, are stomped upon by a great measure of futility; their voices never able to reach the echo-canyon of history. Foot-prints, here, are embedded in sand.
The air is saturated w/ speech & hymn sung to many, but heard only by the deaf. i idly wonder, in easier times, if Brautigan's Blast is ever heard. This i doubt, for how can one hear another's blast, when their own trigger is broken?
The difference between remembrance & actuality astounds me.
i remember nights like these. Cannot place them, but remember.
Another Bottle to make love to.
Another Dream to have.
Another another to have.
& the world moves on.
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