I couldn't tell what was what till you told me after sketching it on a paper towel. Now I know and I'm a better person for it. No longer will I throw bus drivers at bottles or flush toilets for nothing or eat fish on banana day.

SEVERAL WAYS TO HANDLE A MORMON WHO HAS SIX WIVES NAMED BECKY -- (1) Invite him inside for tea and ****** but instead of ****** substitute harmless cookie dough. (2) Insist on calling him Marvin even though his name is Alfred. (3) French-kiss him till he admits that having six wives named Becky is immoral.

While likening cool weather to Walt's cryogenetical brain in low degrees that discolor finger tips & toe nail beds & labial *****, I cut my 1-day ticket to confetti. The loss of a $120-chit doesn't make me less of a Venezuelan millionaire. I could sit for days watching pigeons being fried on the curb-side or scaling fish-heads at the burned-out laundromat. It's a baleful trip to the dog-ovens where dogs are baked on lower settings. Motor oil on cabbage under a bridge doesn't do much for diesel mechanics when the cops are slaughtering rebels in the streets during regulated business hours. "Down in space it's always nineteen eighty-two," sang David Bowie while Caracas smoldered a flat flight from Brixton where Jamaicans frolic because chicken is cheap and nobody's sacrificed a goat there since the E.U. folded because there's mud in their eyes and bruises on their thighs and pus on their bow ties from cutting the wrong guys as it takes all sorts of people to make a McDonald's "beef" patty. There's José & Shirley & Moses & Lenny & Curly.

If I never see you again it'll be too soon. Die monster die! Jump! There's no need to wait for rain to soften the ground and the pain. Listen to me before it's too late. Wait for the bus. It's coming. It won't be long now, realized the long-tailed cat in the roomful of rocking chairs. Well, well, well, only time will tell.