Between the Marquee Moon
I remember it as if it were today, although, who is to say it couldn’t have been yesterday? The inverse is always true. Crimson rooms came after the marquee moon. The love club was banging beneath it, as it constantly does. So, we start the feedback loop between myself and the moon, apparently one of us was shaking too hard.
All was quiet on the beaches of the Western Front, only it was the Far East. Sooner than later, I was in an Atlantic’s City’s room of envious and ominous tones. All was still silent. It started with an earthquake while I was undoing myself in the bathroom–suspicious. The good part is, now I know how The Beatles made it to the EA.
Sound it out: love.
Next thing I think I know, I know something is wrong. To list it out: hostage, guns, run. Front door is fine, and I try to congratulate three large bros on sumo wrestling while they spill their beer. Turns out, they spit at me, and I was only interested in bumming a cig anyway. The joke saved the day when Danny tackled me for his millionth handshake. Because, he was on my shoulders, so to speak, so it goes, I never arrived at empirically verified identity. I was happy, regardless of his sincerity.
After, I finally found my dad, and maybe mom, but something still wasn’t right before this. There were government helicopters hovering noise over heads itching to the truth. Back at an institution, dinner was ready.
I never found the notebook that held this story, to that day. The snapshot will never be complete. But it’s statements like that which leave it false. Nothing is real if you don’t believe who you are. As a result, chose the rocky paths less traveled. Face into the abyss of the belly of the beast, because that’s the only way you can stab him. Cousins are always greater than brothers.
2 + 2 = Epicurus 5
