A theory on working girls....

And what kind of name is Carly anyway?

A theory on underwater saloon brawls...

At the bottom of a murky lake, a diver will find a mason jar half full with fool's gold, an old timey piano that can play by itself, and a broken monacle. I will meet the diver at the banks of the river and, out of breath, explain the entire situation and then follow him to safety. A sheriff with a curly moustache will interrogate me under a heat lamp. I will be made to dance for my freedom. Underneath all of my clothing, I always wear a unitard in case such occassions arise and for safety measures. Safety first.

A theory on botany and peristroyka...

The blood bank is running low. The wolves are awake. Somewhere, an airport is empty and the trees are the only ones that know exactly what I'm talking about.

A theory on the bay of pigs...

I am hollow and heavy. You are lithe and in traction. We are opaque and break easy. He and she are up late at night, every night. They are the ones who break into houses.

A theory on simian darkness...

In the future, I will wear nothing more than a bolero vest and play the accordian for crowds of monkeys. In the future, this is how lovers are punished.

A theory on why I'm still angry...

A person can still be angry under low lighting and dressed in silk pajamas. Anger is it's own brand of dimmness, it's own reminder to sleep.

A theory on nomadic peoples...

An old gypsy woman once told me that, when she looked into my eyes, she saw the wearied eyes of a long dead civil war nurse. I told her that when I looked into her eyes, all I saw were eye boogers. Then I slapped her and called her rude; you see I was wearing a top that day and felt official. The palm reading went much smoother.