Things You Think You're Saying

When You're Around The Whole Dead Scene, They're There As A Tribal Thing; They're There As Part Of A Rendezvous And A Pow-wow.

The Flock Gets Sight Of A Spot Of Blood On Some Chicken And They All Go To Peckin' At It, See, Till They Rip The Chicken To Shreds, Blood And Bones And Feathers. But Usually A Couple Of The Flock Gets Spotted In The Fracas, Then It's Their Turn. And A Few More Gets Spots And Gets Pecked To Death, And More And More. Oh, A Peckin' Party Can Wipe Out The Whole Flock In A Matter Of A Few Hours, Buddy, I Seen It. A Mighty Awesome Sight. The Only Way To Prevent It—with Chickens—is To Clip Blinders On Them. So's They Can't See.

A Sound Of Cornered-animal Fear And Hate And Surrender And Defiance . . . Like The Last Sound The Treed And Shot And Falling Animal Makes As The Dogs Get Him, When He Finally Doesn't Care About Anything But Himself And His Dying.

To Vik Lovell Who Told Me Dragons Did Not Exist, Then Led Me To Their Lairs.

We'd Just Shared The Last Beer And Slung The Empty Can Out The Window At A Stop Sign And Were Just Waiting Back To Get The Feel Of The Day, Swimming In That Kind Of Tasty Drowsiness That Comes Over You After A Day Of Going Hard At Something You Enjoy Doing -- Half Sunburned And Half Drunk And Keeping Awake Only Because You Wanted To Savor The Taste As Long As You Could.