and into the street. Out of the art-deco prison and into the cozy burning house, the bleak house, the decadent steak house. Out of the mouths of tulips and slaves. Out of the frying pan and into the choir. Out of mimesis endlessly mocking. Out like a debutante, in like a thief. Out of pocket, out of reach. Out of time and into being. Out of sight and into seeing. Out of your mind and into your pants. Out like a light and in like a lamp. |
© 2000 Elaine Equi