Violence towards coffee is the subject of our next review, and everything means something to someone. The spoken word performance will take place in the future; preparation is the breakfast of the hesitant. When I approach a subject, I try to be sure of the outcome. I was fairly certain. I was walking on a sea of dimes. I was wringing out that bankroll honey, contemplating the well-dressed elite.
Afterwards, I smoked a cigar. The intervening hours are like a farce to me now; I am not time’s bitch. I went to sleep thinking about what I would wake up thinking about. There was no surprise. No dream. No poison. No subtlety. No sickness. So what was there? Violins, for a start. An unrelated absence nevertheless noted. Baloney sandwiches and graham crackers.
What do you do when a kangaroo tells you there are no pickles in the gin? I mixed a green martini and hopped around in the hopes that it would seem congenial. I got into the habit of getting my way, particularly when I felt I was right. It always worked before. And so it becomes a matter of out-hopping the kangaroo. Oh, the insufferable conceit of such a venture!
I have this feeling, though, that a big black beetle will tear down my small house and build a rutabaga warehouse. What then? Where shall I store my minuscule trophy collection? Where shall I put my collection of exotic hats? Where once stood my ideas of four walls and a roof, farmers will be storing their rutabagas. Damn that big black beetle.