My "friend" said he thought ponies were stupid.

My "friend" said he thought ponies were stupid. Now, I have him tied up in my basement, He's wondering what the heck I'm going to do with him. I ignored him and grabbed by knife.

First I grabbed his hand...by knife. I jabbed it into his palm and punched him in the face with it. "Why are you hitting yourself? Why are you hitting yourself?" This was just the

beginning of the questions. "Who are you and what are you doing in this telephone booth?", "Is that a daisy-chain around your neck?", "What is orange?" I asked my reflection repeat

edly. I never got any solid answers though, only echoes. My reflection in the glass of the phone booth seemed to taunt me. How *did* I end wearing this flower garland, anyway? I re

mes. Booze. I needed it. The hard stuff. I had to forget. I had to escape. "Pops, can you get me a couple bottles of Jameson's?" He nodded, a worried look on his face. I cried

silently into my glass when he left, hoping the years would drop away magically. In my slightly intoxicated brain I constructed my life again, if only I could re-live that one day

I would sing at the top of my lungs. People would gather to listen to what I had to sing. I would write my own songs and produce them. I know how to do that from Uncle Frank.

Uncle Frank was anything but.I would have never learned to compose & produce my own work by listening to his surly evasive equivocations.It was FZ's lyrics which caused my epiphany

that lead me to St. Alfonzo's Pancake Breakfast where I stole the margarine and first heard the pumpkin breathing over the erratic jazz stylings of the Mothers of Invention.