(the anti-maudlin)
“Who am I?” spoke
the Doolittle to the
Transamerica Pyramid.
“A dollar for a dollop
of muh hot sauce,”
spoke the master to
the orphaned squatter.
“Doomsday accrues,”
spoke Maestro Brosnan w/
a clean-shaven Irish brogue
o’course. The buildings at
the city’s center all hum in
a vibrant sort of way. The
foghorn is almost percussive.
“Caw! Caw! Caw!” spoke
the crow in advance of
the careening sun as the
kooky squirrel that hangs
near the top of the foreign
tree awoke (the kooky squir-
rel being, as usual, between
me and the bullish blue of
the big old bay). “How so
very ray!” spoke the squirrel,
which rhymed quite nicely
with the hum and the drum
of the hottish doom of a fog-
lit day; with the hum and the
drum and the salty-hot Irish doom
hovering over the stench of this over-
ripe foglit day. P.S. The squatter
kept squatting, the bull remained
quite the bully (even into elderly
bullishness) and I, myself, the very
narrator whose report you now seek,
went on my merry maudlin Monday way.
