Saturday, January 01, 2011

Thousand: Two Hundred Forty-Two

a new white cowboy hat with a rattlesnake band, and he’s got a feather dangling on a silver chain from his left earlobe. His eyes are full of stars, his pants are full of the galactic swirl, his lips move to the words of the song about your high school girlfriend who went on to greater anonymity as a body, beautiful, naked, and framed for murder. Your spirit weaves a bit in that classic Cadillac (he left the Cressilantro in a garage in Vegas) and the sun glints off so much chrome at once that its like the stars have

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