I’d sure ask him if I only had the noive. He walked swervily
underneath the artwork and toward the cash register
while we talked of better salads; a stuffed basset hound eyeballing me,
wearily. “In Venice there’s plenty of water,” she yawned.
“Does it matter if I’m only here?” With its radii, its parameters,
its conglomerate, its concrete assumptions, “It’s
raining, dear.” I gave her the ticket to another boat. I’d read it
right off the menu (it sort of walked out of the thing,
while Pilsner-head was pouting over a soda). My heart
is like a moth, and you know what they do. I could clamp onto
every single cliché just for a piece of that pie. Ooh, I’d sure ask him.
I’m told the bitterer the better but, boy, with what I’m reading, well, I’m
worn. Hushes such as “This codicil is like a flippant sausage remark” and
“Your mustard hit the target, but didn’t quite fill me up.” It’s just so so-so.
Like that ghost of the art teacher with her cheeks bitten off, “We should
all listen to those who hang around on walls.” Twirling around and around,
trying to pronounce miscellany like “super-celluloid” and
“carnal quavering” (just an aside, here, but I do remember one groovy jiffy
when it shook in its shoes, salivating, re-e-eally wanting out). “How
does he want it?” Granted, we could sit here for ages, salad after salad,
and never get to the bottom of it. I dare you. “Honestly, it
looks just like a bubble and yet has so much to say!”
“Don’t be thinking about a career move,” she whispered. Hidden
behind all those regular sounds were fizz noises, fading like moons.
