A bank run is contagious. We've seen drug companies drop to their contrite knees. But we're all free here cuz our words are empty, ashes blown into the faces of the shivering. This is the painting I wish I could do. George Grosz in crushed steel.
Hats climb the hill with big-daddy shadows and coats the size of backyards.
I abandon my aritist's tool with beer soaked seats. In the Central Park Zoo I talk to the seals and otters. They seem to understand, and at midnight of the 7th day I shivered, I festered, but I did not die. No activist lawyer came to my defense. The nobility of my terrorism had eluded them all.