Hash AnthemAnthony Robinson
[i]for Aaron Belz[/i] Come closer, Mr. Belz; your sentence is commuted. Faulkner believed God was dead, our pursuit of him no more than "a steeplechase toward nothing," a credo hard to follow if you've seen the Arch all yellowed & pinked, snow falling carelessly on lonely, dirty St. Louis (a Coke, not Pepsi, town), no drugs in sight, the haze not hash smoke but December fog & half a dozen beers. Hard to believe that God doesn't want us to listen to [i]Surfer Rosa[/i], or to bounce, screaming, however briefly, into Eisenhower America. Aaron, you prefer Budweiser to microbrew & Frost to Stevens but I say it hasn't a thing to do with your children— it's drizzly in Missouri, the Mississippi is risen & you are beautiful man bloodshot & high as one can get short of paying eight bucks to ride to the top.
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