The sidewalks of NYC– are wild. They probably became popular because they appealed to a desire for stability– domestication, if you will. Then along comes — what? The pooper scooper laws of the early ’70’s. Dogs, lovable creatures, out for a morning stroll, along Madison Avenue, doing what a dog does on a morning stroll– and suddenly it is a problem. A big problem.
It was at around this time when the garbage workers began to get uppity. And the unsightly sight of garbage in big bags on the sidewalks of NYC can be seen — to this very day. Imagine if there were big black plastic bags, rather lovely, for black plastic shimmers, and is flexible, resilient, and gets carried away– when garbage workers get carried away.
But the pooper scooper stuff– how bad is that? No one, not even Barbara Streisand, wants to step in dog poop. With her — dance steps, perfected, her love, not of baby glove Annette Funicello, or Bridget Bardot, unable to bear the bludgeoning of perfectly white baby fur seals, in Canada, probably Quebec, Isthmus of New Foundland.
We’ve heard of black gold, of pearls of the orient, of pearls dived for my niggah wah whah wahhhh, way, down by the slay, the beauty to old gold by a stoke slow, a momento, a brief lover out of Pimento don’t go there please, as if TV were a dinner. TV is not as good as cards, or checkers, or chaw. Or those dang moths, cruising for flow neon, a niggah a clit, a slit jaw to jaw,
Spam of Human Affection 
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