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"I don't want to exploit the boy, but I'll
say this much about music," he said, but seldom went further
than that. There was a show, then there was another show, no one knew
how long it could go on; all they knew was that the kid had chops
like the mountain had caves, like the hotel had towels, like the,
well, you can imagine.
"Forever twisting in the wind," some
said, which is extremely difficult to put into quotes, hence my trepidation
(though mark the lack of pause). But they're worse than frightened
of doing such things themselves, suffering embarassments and such;
they were petrified by the prospect. It kept them safe and tucked
away in their caves but consistently out of firewood when it counted.
"I'm
fixed," he reported, not without some amusement for the implications.
But these melted away, too, and the rambling continued, between
tattered headstones and overgrowns crypts until the very idea of
spending nights anywhere else was a pathetic sidenote, taped to
a broken refrigerator in a field of mistakes. "Now that the
paint's dry, we can at least see where these tracks lead,"
he said. No one could do anything but stare.
Because
poetry without consequences is just needless philandering.
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