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Toto I She glided into his Own, inebriated, Humbertiarized him a spell-- or would she have on a different Futon or the floor?-- long enough that Possum Day played for ineffectual relief; so he wrote another Bebop letter, slapped or brushed or dragged images into abstraction, (--or other Bud bottles left half empty on the table--) forgot him for a Plath-tuned oboe; even if he'd tom-tommed it into her, she wouldn't have been the right chirper. And, to tell you really, she might not have known him by name nor instrument, though i can define her humming through each bar as he'd have riffed beside her voice as she'd looked for other Adonis clones; as Plato stuck his finger in a Marguerita; atop a tss-ta-tat hat; her bandana pasted to the same floor and still, i'm looking for the story through Williams it's all wrong! Her voice mutes bright colors, remembers Roberta Flack, whips into Hill. Everyone is starkly reminded in our ways when she serves the Cuervo to a man in a tattered bowler cap |
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