Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Che Guevara's Ship Finds Fishermen Willing To Forget Themselves
Reggae'd in Jamaica, swam around in the Bahamas the president
of our corporation of the tortilla chain. There were refrains and key
changes and loud riffs and streams of solos, but the synchronicity
was not exactly what I was looking for. The syncopation, infusion
of ladles and rhyme, was an unfortunate Canaveral to a rocket.
Thought I wouldn't last another minute, the blast was fast,
I do not even remember who got it. Was it you, Simon?
Was it you, Peter? Is it I, Lord, why do you ask? I was
here when you found me, and now you say you love me.