Sarah Pearlstein

Hungering for Hungary, or how I became a mail-order bride and moved to Europe/ He sent to me through the airwaves. Exiles in the same culture. No Israel that I want. He is boorish about matters of state. He believes we are in a Jewish gang. I am taking the bus again. Now he is less sure of Israel. Now he is taking the bus again and talky-talky to the pretty girls he sees the world as a vast parade. He has an Amsterdam disorder. He thinks that all that gl;itters is not dust, but might lead to pussy. For the both of us, you damn dyke he thunders across the plunder which is the West to me. Which is Tony Sopranos house. Which is it. My bedroom or yours? Which is the westy witchy plunder for? Let me out, Rave lover I am promoting you to culture, and minister of magician hats. Many hats, but not a joke for one of you before? If jokes exhibit the features of totality they are the opposite of fashion which deconstruct upon the skin of the eye. We are getting out of here, oddly because we are already floating in space.

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