Slick reference point in the greasy diner. Plot twists and argyle socks, unforgivable meaning in the drab part of town. Moxie must be reserved for those dangerous moments. Wisecracks make grease fires. Something called certainty gets taken back. Mysterious people with information float past with sights for sore eyes and internal questions. How many of the sawbucks in that bundle can relieve doubt? A bottle of cheap whisky on the desk proffered with a nod. Cigarettes as instruments. Everyone is malarkey’s best pal. A quick sock to the mush fulfills Diogenes’ intent. We have prose now that is the dead person’s present. No one slips from suddenly. Meanwhile, a shot in the dark: obsequious Justice worth a few smackers. Another ounce of brown liquid, a puff of wreaking smoke to the lungs, tip back the Stetson and feet on the desk: it’s a job.
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a certain Comedy I can't pin down, or explain, or understand where it comes from.
Thank you. Bob Brue