History of More than Anything

MADONNIAD turns older than ever today, where the 80s fired up this storm and the populace (fretted to the least instant person) understood their role as populace. same with big haired boys sticking their tongues out flash style and such, to the beat of something yesterday, almost. the words were printed destiny in every parlance until the wet afternoon grew cozy and a little look away was in order. there’s always time! that Andy Warhol fact finding trip down the street 5 blocks exactly, then turn, then wait for the public to catch up: this straightened out many fund drives and eager bear baiting. and more, he presented a safe house theory come to roost. practice guides come out with market ready to share, to skew the populace towards which is which. it doesn’t make or break, for the condition of one exhumes the condition of all. the MADONNIAD grew for vacation, while Reagan news went on, and other cherished underlinings in the book as well. so much more than less than ever grew from these and other sage inquiries. so Madonna® (which see, incorporated for your pleasure) beget Britney (which keep seeing). now diamonds mull toward another turn in the path. Britney’s built for speed. the legs of her shorts are cut to the bottom of conjecture, for the pleasure of saying that a point in time really occurs. this Iran Contra dust up (which don’t see, it doesn’t matter enough in history now for details) starts Madonna®’s earth. it begins on notes of plucky youth culture, and ends on the dime that stops that car they talk about. Reagan news went straddling the dim sphere that chose his role. we saw wars control box office, we saw axes broken in drum time, we saw a lot of real pictures taken just in time. each draft means something new. Madonna® parks in romance, is more sweat than we can unearth in a day of trying. she’s nothing newer than sunshine but things happen. Britney steers her pelvis towards what moves her, or so we read in the book we write. Britney will announce, someday, and the BRITNIAD itself will close doors that opened on their own, furthermore open the doors that closed. this is the wish dictated in cultural tones, like the rest of us think we are safe. the CRUISIAD is something quite different, a parlour and a game therein. Tom is rather dull, frankly, and only there for the illusion of balance, hero he may be. we’re crazy, totally keyed, and this shows in the work we hide. poetry’s starts rumble on the edge. Walt Whitman, say, flunked sincerity sometimes but watch the idea push to sea as he swatted it. a picture of New York City can stand on its marvel. race thru in your vehicular way, those palisades and rivers meet critical roadways of massed, infectious visions. Madonna® knew these everyday, for the chunky check drawn on the decade or two to play out. well, now it’s a year or two, living an age in a minute. the 60s were the 70s with a preface. the 80s marched on, Reaganized, they say, but that’s the easy way out. did you see the crater that the bombing left? it was the doctor of your backyard, the pleasure of your root. Madonna®’s play is simple ice, for which we are proud. Jorma Kaukonen (which see, which see) steps back as his guitar feeds back into a rip thru some of the easier puddles. a big animal maunders on.