pulped.

pulse, quick.
it's the new york stock exchange

the jazzy profession, with less rhythm
but needing you to be cooler than miles,
and smoother than coltrane.

and when it all comes out up,
it's enough to let out,




*running a line*

:

"I say goddamn!"

is that wallace's wife?

I dont care, nor does she.
it's not like girls like her
give invitations like this to just anyone.

quit it,
her feets not hurting, dont rub it.

and as my act of god,
i'm sorry,
i'm sorry.

i meant...

and as if the act of god
came down upon me like vengeance
and a furious anger,

i will bestow upon my brother
his righteousness,

truth.


so thats word.