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--- H E R M A N   B E A V E R S

1 The cognoscenti know God is what matters, if only for the twenty minutes it would take to spin pitch out of white lies. In the backseat quiet, muscles flexing in an arena of bruises, six-year love affairs captious as an Oldsmobile running on cheap gasoline, neon buzzes loud as flies raging over the scarred earth. Classical tidbits, world music, ragged half moon license, archives of kitsch. A majestic disturbance, this kiosk of rain: you say she did have fans?

2 City of philistines: the year just following listeners made up, riding saddles of verity; did a room over. Lies make tears seem precious; an eclectic form of soulstretching. Throw a radio somewhered with a view of the river and aficionados might ponder the linguistic tangles; old, slow metaphors for metastasis, altitude a sacred conspiracy. Corporate hatemail on hold, a winter sky emergency. Damn! Even the smallest people write off Los Angeles.

3 The station charging rent, awfully touchy about "My Favorite Things." Postulations on dead air, psychic handgrenades of imbalanced diction, elegiac plums. You could roux a special edition of hurt. The country married to ventriloquism. In the Haze(d) scuffed face of evening, you can watch the instant fracture, become public radio insiders with the tools to perceive. The station's canned all the things a dog can do with a newspaper-running them every afternoon for a week. Publicly connect to score for Henry V. Rush hour, one dark December, the valley in absolute alarm.

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