at Doctor Bombay’s. A guy with whom I
had recently gone out once on a lame date
was behind the bar. I’m not certain it was he
who served my drink, but now of course I’m
wondering if I made some sort of enemy on
that fated evening. Oh, please don’t let that
evening be fated. I do remember it as if it
were yesterday, that date. It’s still a dull
echo in my ears. Or behind them. It was
so irreducibly boring and not the least bit
assertive. He wasn’t. I wasn’t. After I saw
assertive. He wasn’t. I wasn’t. After I saw
a UFO, I kept building and then rebuilding
this stack of wooden sentences until all that’s
left is nothing but a bunch of smoke and mirrors.
