Losing the Human Race everything has become so quiet, illness has struck us at close to midnight and we've missed out on the happenings sweet medicine eludes us everyone is in everyone's fan club but mine those who were are all dead now and i can't even write poems about them yet so i suffer in this little bubble of mine a little bubble that I can't seem to pop and make my body tickle all over on up to my brain where all the useless information is stored and where all the memories torture me and where the future horrifies me and when my fantasies put me on beautiful journeys that make this hardship of opinions, morals and different tastes in music some of my least favorite things as I pass by that cemetery off the Long Island Railroad in Farmingdale where Coltrane rests and where I traveled back to Southern California after the Big Apple was a mean, smug son of a bitch who hustled me into wanting to run away and hid...
Like the title says.