His brooding excellency stepped outside

with a ladle, just so he could declare:

'It's not ready yet!'

The finicky pottage of 718, that is.

One is tempted to take up Joe Gould's:

"The Oral History of Our Time".

It would be a lot like William Burroughs'

cut-up method, but in a colloquial sense.

Judging by the sheer volume of gossip, it

stands to reason that gossipers will

assuredly gossip about one another.

Probably to the same people they

gossiped about, I should like to think

that such plot-driven dialogue could

get lost in elevation.

Where does indeed collateral damage go?

You couldn't have known that I digress,

I digress.

I'd like to say that I'm brimming with

Amor fati.

I don't need a record to have grooves, to

appreciate the music.

This sound is as warm as it gets--meaning

closest to.

A splash of ***** on a curb, a bus stop

window clearly replaceable, four blades

of grass & a future spore.

A needle catches a groove, steaming

broth is forced to gather round.