—THE BIZZIES ROUND US UP, DO IT ALL AGAIN NEXT WEEK

 

 

Ice Cream Sunday

 

It’s a blur of fact or fiction, your smeared lipstick, handcuffs in a purse, condoms clotted in a web, and each lick of the savage sun is a cheese grater on skin, while the taxis die like dinosaurs and a little girl on the corner drops her cone by the curb in order to wave.