In windmills of fire, I go under, forgotting everything that happens after the burn (post-truth / post-music / post-fake). I am being carted around by Little Man in a longaberger basket. We’re on our way to the ceremony, taking place among the daisies. They carry these longaberger baskets around in the trunks of their cadillacs. There’s a basket for every day-tripper that makes the mistake of washing up on their island. There’s a goat in every basket. Soaked with kerosene, the basket will burn and the day-tripper will burn in it and with it. The goat comes out okay.
When it goes, it goes easily, wildly, a two-alarm, three-alarm, four-alarm rock. We’re going to rock around the clock tonight with slap bass, blubber bass, club bass, neigh bass, shrimp bass, etc. We’re going to need whatever that maid is making to put out this fire.