Growing up by the trashcans and the ditches The land fields and the garter snake grass and the bugs that itches. He was pimpled faced ,freckled and fare Wanting to be Andy Warhol in a town of 833. So where can I escape, or can I build my factory? Out of these cutting glass pool halls, grease stained floors. There is art in these doors, let’s pretend Margie is a model. And we can walk up and down Main Street. Leather jackets to our feet. We can put on sunglasses and all talk about what is vague and eat some drug store ice cream. Brickwalls, fucking sun. The enemy and I are one. Pull up your truck a little more, shade in the neighbor kid who is confused if he’s Lou Reed or Candy Darling. Throw the paperplates and cans in the air, sit down in this cemetery and stare. Record me humming into the silent night. All nude and badly tattooed on one side. Let’s evolutionize this applecore, return in to red but before We must make it green and ripe. And paint it with all the bugs and mites. Then we’ll get some screenprint and this will go up near the Antique store. So the decaying man who owns it can nod his head and lock the door. Little man, discovered a band. A couple of cousins and a troublemaking mugger. He’d slip his mom’s valuables to the highest bidder. He is a badass and has the drugs. He can sing like Frank Stallone. But he doesn’t feel like anything New York City that I know. He huffs paint and smokes weed. The only thing about art he knows is about his motorcycle speed. How the hell am I going to get this guy to do a psychedelic opera? First Greyhound bus, I slip in and fall over all my hoarded jewels. A mask, A hat, a billion acrylic glues, a ghostly wig, a walk like I’m falling into the wall. And 2 women named Deena and Dusty, twins, who possibly are really daughter and mom. They know all about city art, They know all about the heart, it takes to make it. On these wild wild west streets as we travel East.