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For Jodorowsky and Ron Bushy
The pathway has a velour tenderness—though I’ve seen better. Anyway, you say you’re happy, and that’s what I care about. Or do I? At the end of the path lies—well, I’m not sure what lies at the end of the path. In any case, it’s more pleasant to linger. The trees have such big friendly leaves; they look like circus tents. The leaves and the darkness mingle, the night air is humid, and some kind of fancy insects are flying above the treetops. This park, or forest, or whatever you want to call it, might be beautiful. You keep wanting to stop and kiss. The people who stroll by in their jumpers and sneakers ignore us. I say: “What about your mom?” And you say: “We have pop music for forgetfulness.” “You’re quite the jokester,” I say. “I thought pop music was for vestigial religion.” “Hallelujah,” you say.