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Communique Bob Hope's on stage, but we want the Gold Diggers, want a flash of legs through the hemorrhage of vermilion, giving us something to kill for. We want our hearts wrung out like rags & ground down to Georgia dust while Cobras drag the perimeter, gliding along the sea, swinging searchlights through the trees. The assault & battery of hot pink glitter erupts as the rock 'n' roll band tears down the night-caught in a safety net of brightness, The Gold Diggers convulse. White legs shimmer like strobes. The lead guitarist's right foot's welded to his wah-wah. "I thought you said Aretha was gonna be here." "Man, 1don't wanna see no Miss America." "There's Lola." The sky is blurred by magnesium flares over the fishing boats. "Shit, man, she looks awful white to me." We duck when we hear the quick metallic hiss of the mountain of amplifiers struck by a flash of rain. N EON V ERN A C U L A R After the show's packed up & gone, after the choppers have flown out backwards, after the music & colors have died slowly in our heads, & the downpour's picked up, we sit holding our helmets like rain-polished skulls. I49 from Dien Cai Dau ...

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