empire

kafka's hunger artist like little jack horner slumped in the corner of the grand ballroom where massive cameras loom like dinosaurs channeling the great party to all points of the battered globe. an endless parade of starlets filing past in popping paparazzi lights while mad robotic bands on spectral stages explode the night in every possible direction, their mosh pits swelled and surging offering up young virgins for sacrifice held aloft above the great roiling cacophony of the age. but don't be afraid and trust me the press will never get this far down the page, lost in its own delusional scene. but let us trudge on, the mud does wonders for your skin, and our ride will be here soon...

meanwhile back in knoxville where most of this began, where the mother mountains laid on their backs and whose breasts we now behold, where the cherokee inked the deal and hank williams and rachmaninoff bit the bullet and dylan dodged it, the sun is rising on aphrodite's sly smile as she strolls the streets at dawn after a night of no sleep. and please, another round of whatever they're having. and here's to the new tomorrow, and i'll see you in the garden in the wasteland where we'll put our shoulders to the big wheel again. another working day, and by the way, the empire has fallen. long live the empire.