In the fluorescent mourning, teary and bedded in the violence of wandering violin -- seeking praise and receiving a hospital bed, I told my brother to paint the city, the way in was in 2002.
The road kaleidoscope'd and fractured all of Kerouac's high coups, broken saltines and cold tomato soup, in gown in feathered down-- the world sang couplets and through windows I watched rain, and told my brother to paint the city, the way it was before my success and subsequent pain.