the void where you laugh at this invisible humor where we are
great writers on the highway across America in tears to the Brooklyn
Bridge, down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills yacketayakking
screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and
eyeball kicks whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the next decade, stores
where they thought they were