Southern California is ablaze on the first day of the summer. The smoke billows and paints the Orange County sky a sad portending grey with
just smoke and death that hovers in the sky, the moon red like the skin of a red-scarlet rose. So I watch Brandoscream mumble rage and rumble in Black and White.
On the Waterfront
A Streetcar Named Desire
The Wild Ones
And I think to myself, while my cigarette burns a grey tornado of delicious smoke:
I want to be like Stanley Kowalski, that crazy Pollock the girls fear and make cute fun of: (Stella Blanche and Doris); I want to eat greasy chicken like a pig then throw my plate against the wall and scream in people’s faces, flip over card tables and knock out three of my friends after they stick me in the shower
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