We know of an ancient radiation that haunts dismembered constellations, a faintly glimmering radio station. While Frank Sinatra sings “Sunday Comics,” the flies and spiders get along together…cobwebs fall on an old skipping record.
You drove me up and down the street; you used me up like gasoline. I still remember the Sunday Comics, that’s the reason had to stay away from Claire.
Omar Willey pulls a photograph out of a box in his return to photography writing.
So how can we be strangers? He’s got no personality. It’s just a clever imitation of the people on TV. A line for every situation; he’s learnin’ Sunday Comics tricks. Havin’ sex and eatin’ cereal, wearin’ jeans and smokin’ cigarettes.
I lie still…game breezecombs my hair ☯ I’m a poor host–some of my bookscan’t stand up straight ☯ Rain…?Or just windclacking the leaves?…
Thoughts on postmodernism, fatalism, and community theater. A typical review from Omar Willey.
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