You lived there for a sense of scale, the factory gutted--just you and its square footage, like a giant companion, more like acreage, you said, the light rolling over the scola cantorum you built with your carpenter's hands-- a bay view, half-loft, a half-darkened stage, or era. The town faced a continent's western edge that the Bill Shively Band might yammer & wail, it seemed, and poetry happen. Malarkey, too, those twin drunks applauding in the corner, joined, as always, by the hip: we were all prop wash and sputter and cool remove, while you wore the mirrors, and stared us down, and ranted, and climbed the walls.
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