Listen to Sinatra now. “Listen to Dino, too.”
Listen to Sinatra now. “Listen to Dino, too.”
It’s a band called HALF-A-STORY
It’s a band called HALF-A-STORY. Raucous comedy beyond mumbling and shoegazing, beloved bad-day-friends.
Kerie’s Book Square
I went to Kerie’s Book Square. At Bobby Kerry’s Book Fair. Zena Richard was there. I guess that’s a good one. Flag it good.
Myself, Buck, and Madge
I don’t fuck Buck. Buck and Madge don’t fuck. I don’t care who fucks Buck. There are no children in Madge.
Howard Jones
Howard Jones. Howard Jones is going to die today. And I didn’t want to do it.
There is no Bob. There is no Martha.
There is no Bob. There is no Martha.
There is no Bob. There is no Martha.
Richard Fresno shouldn’t have my ethnic queen.
This narrator of this fiction writes: Richard Fresno shouldn’t have my ethnic queen. (I must be dignity to me.)
Don’t talk at Little Orphan Annie.
Don’t talk at Little Orphan Annie. She’s fictional. And also don’t charge me her.
Richard Fresno thought
Richard Fresno thought, those Italian immigrants that arrived turn-of-the-century… their grandkids, they look like Elvis.
Frankly, Richard Fresno had a century-wide problem.
“So—my cousin Donald Dio McDonald should be dead.”
“So—my cousin Donald Dio McDonald should be dead,” Lady Rae began.
It’s just factual.
In fact,
I type:
So, by now my cousin Donald Dio McDonald should be dead. (If you a reading this message, and receiving its meanings.