The Trouble With Morning Is That It

On The Bowery, In The Ornate Carcass Of A Formerly Grand Vaudeville Theater, A Dance Marathon Limps Along. The Contestants, Young Girls And Their Fellas, Hold One Another Up, Determined To Make Their Mark, To Bite Back At The Dreams Sold To Them In Newspaper Advertisements And On The Radio. They Have Sores On Their Feet But Stars In Their Eyes.

I Knew It. You’re An Alien,” Said Her Former Best Friend, The Pale, Bespectacled Creature With The Spectacular Cleavage. “yes, I’m An Alien And I Still Made Cheerleader. And Now I’m Going To Steal Your Boyfriend To Prove Girls Can’t Really Be Friends.” “i Sat Back Timidly When You Torched My House, Killed My Parents, And Ate My Dog. But Now You’re Stealing My Boyfriend? That’s A Step Too Far!

It Was A Kiss Small In Its Ministrations But Epic In Its Feeling.

That's What Living In Their World Is-a Big Lie. An Illusion Where Everyone Looks The Other Way And Pretends That Nothing Unpleasant Exists At All, No Goblins Of The Dark, No Ghosts Of The Soul.

When You Peeled Back The Skin, You Were Dealing With Bone And Muscle, Blood And Nerve Endings. It Was All The Same. She Liked The Beautiful Logic Of The Circulatory System, The Elegance Of The Neurological, And The Fierce Warrior Spirit Of The Heart. The Body Had Rules And It Had Quirks.