i have ten years after, in honor of call-o-whoa-boy-way, who has
cricklewood green, from bo, (in honor of also, who, on his celebration,
though not his actual day, gave it to 3.2.3) but i have a space in time,
which is, i recall, before cricklewood green, and better, and i remember,
too, chicago stadium and ten years after's last show there on their last
tour and how the lude'ed crowd threw folding chairs, cans, bottles, sweat,
despair at the roadies as they came onstage to break it all down for the
next show of the final tour.

i have a new paragraph now because that is what you and i expect. 

i bow to crowds.

we are what we expect.

we love, though, what surprises.

my fragmented life is all of this. hard to recall who i knew and who i now
know. what is. what isn't. reel and unreel.

i just feel trapped. or stuck. just lost at the bread-section. calcified
by the surfeit of choice. 

-r i am my own autobiographer i