are out there.
03 Apr 2003 / 3:04 a.m.
i once slept in a house that ginsberg had slept in first. he drew softeyed fish on the smoke yellow walls. they were swimming toward the ceiling. at the center of the ceiling was a whirlpool of stars. colored wires, house veins, spilled out of a hole in the acrylic vortex.
the water heater in the kitchen was covered in 4-color vinyl stickers; matte black block letters dreaming up krylon fuckoff slogans on government housing. bass throbbing glitchy dub worked it's way through walls, shaking chromeplate complaints out of dirty silverware in the sink. i imagined oilrags and rusted razors under the sink, next to a box of caked borax.
i try to imagine the hands of the people who lived there, passing it back: crash house seneshals.
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