Was suspect of me childlike

I held my breath and took a nine-second video with my cell phone. This is the only reason I am certain that this happened. Amanda Petrusich

There American raw remains could seem, in coast,
a sign half-encompassed by an acoustic song
absorbed, then sung: bar-rendered tables telling the neighborhood
to pass a few but work spiritually, as
obligated, best just-born to look at the America where
experimental certain millions are stationed
to know titles to those films, t-shirts, an infinite
buttoned-up piece. But I do live, and to an insane,
extensively attenuated means, I’m born in the Smith’s blues
lapping sometimes between video and impressions.
We, The America, I, from writer shelves, Tokyo’s waiting
couples congregate precisely. The remaining thirty-five
spent a collective nibble on plot, furtive translation,
an eventually-stopped Joe or Robert or Exit. Michael,
a despair in Mississippi, apocryphal, installing on blues,
has more answers nonetheless than all Broadcasting There.