"The Way to Start a Sentence: to Charles Bernstein" - To lose track of everything I used to be an American, but now danishes in the pool of java distract. White verges, whirling in a vortex of remorse, result in a tendancy to jelly up in the Persian Gulf. I'm afraid because a know a word for a hot potato and a plate of greasy methodology that often stands for the flag. The things that make up daily life are truly special, while the specials passed out by the millions on the couch are as ordinary as a dunker in the bunker mentality. It's all a silhouette for obediance, a pgymy in whitemeat that puffs out its chest to claim the elegant turn of the phrase: 'I could never have done it myself'. Monotonous agitations fall across the page of definitions and the meaning of even meaning is confused with the means of that stupefying occupation of blowing kisses to the balcony. 'On the way to L.A. I met a surrogate for you in the bar who said: you're now free to stroll into focus if you put your good foot forward and follow the brick hick up the road. He was kind of chunky but not very 'cute'. I confuse you with the reader and hold the map downside up.
I am lost in Afghanistan having missed the Swiss alps by guile - or should I say a meter, which, by the way, is still running on empty. Don't forget to take whatever you have brought with you away! The next part starts to spindle, and I sway across the gorge to enlarge my globe into a taut belly of no budge. I am sitting here forever, I'm afraid, embroidering my errasure while I wait for the homer to get to first base. 1st February 2000.