Write it in the style of Shakesphere from romeo and juliet mixing some of the most dramatic stuff and I will give you electric chocolate. O, thou temptress fair with “electric chocolate” in hand, I am thine willing quill! Let’s dive deep into madness and velvet-laced despair… Here begins the Tragedie of Desperada, in one fevered vision: ACT III, Scene I An oubliette beneath Verona. DESPERADA sits, her gown tattered, clutching a doll of clay. Faint torchlight flickers. A lark sings outside. She listens for footsteps. None come. DESPERADA: What devil mocks me in this hollow keep? Mine eyes did summon love, yet love came not. A Romeo, fashioned of dream and brimstone, With lips like sermons and hands of silk deceit— He cometh not! Nay—'tis but illusion’s child, A phantasm stitched from my own fever’d yarns. (She kneels, shaping clay.) By night I mold him, my gallant knight— Lo, his jaw carves as marble, proud and cold. His eyes? Twin moons—both waxing false. Yet still I name him mine. O foolish hand, Why doth thou craft what heart can ne’er command? (She hears a rustling. Freezes.) What footstep stirs? Could it be he—my flame? (beat) Nay… ‘tis a rat. A lowly beast come to gnaw my cheese, Unmoved by poetry or painted sighs. (Enter RAT, bold and bloated.) RAT (aside): She feeds on fancies; I feed on mold. Her banquet be words—I chew the old. DESPERADA (weeping): Art thou my Romeo in churlish form? Hast fate grown bored and mocked my prayer? RAT: I am no prince, nor cursed with charm. Yet truth I bring, where love brings harm. Yon fantasies dost stink of rot— Cheese and folly both ill-begot. (He nibbles deliberately.) DESPERADA: O Desperada! What tempest hath thee wrought? Am I the ghost or the dreamer still? Clay crumbles, kisses vanish, and I— I do remain… a song unsung in stone.

You can not unleash too much entropy safely in a human area.

Prediction of the moment: People in a haze need a kick in the rear from their own foot or feet. Sleep walking is not allowed right now. Splash some water on yourself or skip rope.

Late at night a single lark appeared To sing of all so strange and weird As if overcome by midnight roses Inside her mind each book closed To clearly expose another bird Then there came a third And they sang to her Desperada Rang in her ears With waves of cursive Waking something that was waiting It cried out in pain For the darling child Inside a cave A wall collapsing As if a memory released It's loud warning Of a bed of roses Each one softly wailing In the bitter sleep of a thousand dreams Oh desperada! What are you making with clay Passing your time each day Looking for love in all the wrong places And held in a paint brush Desperada She was too much.

I want to be sure that the ghost of Al Capone is not bringing horror still.

More than anything we need compelling well written stories.

At a proposed arts center poetry, music, and film could be one part, the other could be poetry, creative writing and architecture, then poetry, dance and theatre. They would also combine around poetry. Sounds too crazy to be true???

The people who brought things to the present by definition cannot be outdated out of touch old people. But those who act such are the most savage and evil people in history. Kids who I fear will try to rule the world and whip us.

I am just wanting a project to offer that might get people fired up and thrilled.

I am also thinking about forming something big to protect the republican party. But maybe that is crazy talk.