Like a doctor in underwear, the decade began. Cocktails implore in a language all too common. Forget pencils now: serve crunchy things. The day becomes evening. Something blends memorably. Wet bars produce a relaxed economy. Russians in their doctor clothes tell dated woodpecker jokes, freezing image of next pay check. People do not drink vodka. A case of doctoral bourbon sits by the couch. We dream of the freshest ice cubes, the ones with ripping edges to disturb the frumpy. On the coast, people believe another coast exists. A summer get together and crunchy things. Perhaps the lowly dump truck bears the seed for tomorrow’s flying car. Your doctor friend will want three. We dream of artichokes, scads of them filling the back seat. Flying cars on the horizon, in homage to something Allen Ginsberg said in May. A bowl of mulligatawny soup later, with all the propriety of crunchy things. You look nice today, as a considered advantage of excellent crunchy snacks. Viscous snacks are sad dol...
poems, fireflies...