Okay. Ready? Good. Let’s get to it. Time to drop the needle in the tracks and separate the soul from the wax. Decided on a trip to D.C. do you see? Hang around with friends, formulate a plan, check in with two kittens I was grooming. Made calls, set dates, packed my papers up, blueprints for the life I was designing, rocket Metroliner down the northeast corridor to the bacon of industrial democracy. Straight to the tail of the train for a joint, watched the rails whip away, like a pair of shiny serpents parallel. Over, I thought, it was over, and overrated by me, the life I wasn’t living was over, glossy Metroliner, limos would be next. Everything awaited my arrival. Sat alone, train mostly empty, or partly full, depending on perspective, as is the case with everything, gazed through glass at the green scenic smear, felt the electricity percolate my blood, girl came by, said it was her seat, said she’d only gone to get a soda. Automatic gentleman apologies. Second thoughts, minute thoughts, of hours spent together in secluded, romantic b and b’s. Kiss, don’t telephone, don’t television. Asked her could I stay and she said, wood eye? Struck dumb stunned and amazed. Beauty so exquisite that it pained me, looks that were the fortune of a noble family, inherited like chairs by Duncan Phyfe. Blonde hair, blue eyes, strong cheekbones, thin nose, pouty lips, something almost tough in her persona. The body couldn’t ever be as perfect as her face, but it was, especially the legs. Probably in her thirties, but dressed for an exclusive boarding school, crisp white blouse, suspenders, culottes, black watch plaid. Central casting fantasy, magic realized. How could I survive a life where dreaming made it so? The mettle I was made of was tested by her legs, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of them.

Everything is, the way it is, for a reason. Or, it isn’t. Or both. Or neither. It’s so hard to tell. But I can tell you. I can tell you a mile away. I can tell you’re a mile away by the Luke in your eyes. Matthew. Mark. John upstairs on your left. A marvelous hat was timed by all. All’s well that’s oiled well. If you think the party is dull, circulate, if you think it’s fun, circle seven. Every won played Counts. Except those who played Contessas. The Count’s divorce was uncontessad. At the auction she was chomping at the bid. The subway in London is the fellow peon tube. Tube B or not Tube B? I once met a Jewish gangster exiled in the islands, his name was Bermuda Schwartz. European? No, it’s just ice in my pocket. Don’t step in the poodles. She was only a stableman’s daughter, but all the horsemen knew her. Then there was the performance artist who said, “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I’m like.” Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts Albert Finney. Remember that bastard Lester Maddox? He was a racist, and a brutal hatemonger. He was the Lester of two evils. Stop, I’m killing me! Want a drink? No thanks, I’m not drinking any more. Of course, I’m not drinking any less, either.

reader beware!: Author is crazy