Buenos noches, Senor. I want you tonight. I'm all alone in my bed looking up at the moon. I hear a train whistle. Will you be here soon? Your face is a canvas painted in flashing laser light colors. Your voice is so soothing, whispering words of love in my ear. Oh dear God, I just want him here. It all seems so delicate, like fine threads in a web, weaving themselves in and out of our heads. Silk stockings and sweet gardenia candles flickering out a dim light. I cant stand it much longer. Please crawl in my window tonight. This whole thing feels awful because you're not free. Mi esperanza is just to have you. Confusion and pain are nothing new. Buenos noches, senor, I'm here, can't you see? I'm ready for you to come to me. I'll accept any term. What will be, will be.

A Massey Fergie tractor
An old VW beetle
A worn out pair of boots
Manuela the 3 legged dog, and Senora
In their humble tumble home

The small concession to modern life
Just a mobile phone

Nothing special here
No status or wealth is evident
I love you Senor Mujica!
You do not change your way of life
Just because you're President

Over staffed and under fed
Spanish waiters
rush around with
waistcoats of wisdom
wearing black shoes
of sordid shift-work soles.

They greet and speak to every new
tourist, and regular, as if a
brother, sister, mother, second-cousin-twice-removed
stepmother, yet really they are:

the ephemeral fodder of the
cheap, low-cost-airline,

the flash and it’s gone spine of most cities
on the map,

the ‘Sorry, I left it in a Barcelona Café, could I get it back on insurance?’
baseball cap, that most sightseer marionettes wear, back to front,

the standing in line, waiting to complain,
tourists that know nothing of decorum.

So the Spanish waiter served me my coffee
and whispered in my ear,
‘Disfrutar de su día senor’,
that was,
'Enjoy your day Sir’.

They say it takes a village
to raise a child
I’m skeptical.
After all,
humans are innately selfish.
And I can get all the love I need from my biological parents.
But Alex’s mother takes me home from school,
And Coach Rod gives me ten extra push-ups for talking during practice-
tough love, he says
Mrs. Nobil takes me Black Friday Shopping
(the one retail experience my mom refuses)
Senor Rolando, who lives next door
shows me his vinyl records
and teaches me Spanish in small snippets of conversation.
They say it takes a village
to raise a child,
and I agree.

The old man said to me "son, timing is key"
I said, "old dude you look like a man who heard about rythym".
Old felines  like you come a dime  for a dozen, always poppin of yang about isms and schisms .

Naw fresh meat. This buds for you, If I really knew then what I thought that I knew
I wouldn't be grading your papers with exes and checks but I see in your eyes that your vision is short.
You think you hot **** but aint all that smart.

FYI pops I think that you reading me wrong.
You cant see my dimensions nor fade my intentions.

So you think they broke the mold. you have this thing down cold.
This has never been done before you.
Here ,wipe your nose.

Hey Senor senior if your so informed,then please pass along a few high value pearls.
How bout the one telling about what women want cause you really cleaned up in
the female department .

The old man just smiled and said "pearls before swine.
Just drop a few breadcrumbs to find your way back".

Off is the direction I want you to truck he said.
Don't  forget Wonder is the best kind of bread he said
You must be slow or just light in the head he said.

Yeah, whatever.

Lime green freezer pops
Swigs of senor Jack Daniels
My body gets hot.

-------------------------------

Jacky versus wine
Will fight to the death tonight
Victor gets a home

---------------------------------

Baby-making songs
(The world tastes like raspberry!)
Jazz flute Godzilla

-------------------------------

Little black cell phone
Glows modern techno at night
Rad leaks in my brain.

(I am now a spidercorn!)

---------------------------------

Idiotic cat
Sole bane of my living room
You should've been a dog

--------------------------------

Woman and man-thing
Flame haired goddess of cleavage
Mid-coitus phonecalls.

---------------------------------

Two shots of whiskey
One sibling revelation
Long night of country.

--------------------------------

Blood-baths, hair stylists
****** eye for the dead guy
Joanne: **** the man.

-------------------------------

A nice hairy man
Smirnoffs, beer pong victory.
Did I do a bad?

----------------------------------

I am drunk on you
And on you conversation
More than on the beer.

---------------------------------
Whiskey sours, full.
Half-**** swimming with strangers.
Attraction repressed.

----------------------------
Oh my pretty beer
You so inspire my mind
I can't stop giggling.

-----------------------------
Hank bones on the wall
A sad tale of pretending
Oh no! Demon feet.

weeding ‘n planting,
(ten rows of garlic, waiting to bite caressing hands)

<•>

unsurprisingly to me
garlic native to northeastern Iran,
so says the arbiter-know-it-all, Senor Wikipedia

did you know that,
amongst us,
a young woman whose back
is bent,
bent over,
weeding and weeping, while picking,
retrieving the fruit of the plain earths plane

spending days
retrieving spring-planted bulbs in the sun,
a mysterious poet residing among us
conjuring up poems and, ****, even
plants questions
with granted permission

asks a strangers gasping queries
so simple she renders his
body from soul, makes him
disclose his crazy ill-at-ease
showing
his own
general roots,
slumbering deep in reddish brown soul’s earth

one whose only great escape
through the written poem
when his back is straight,
straight against the wall
backed up,
and ripe for the picking

in reparation

the favor will be returned
three inquiries will be fedex’d
if I ever learn her address

for now, in the  throes of soil resting within,
my need knowings just nurturing
until the calendar declares time!
harvesting is now

when we ready shake hands
when you say

“here is the garlic tended,
and here are our hands,
bitten and caressed”

till such time I get
the answers from
the farmer herself,
I can patient wait

further research needs
original sources,
till such time,
make up tales
that will hold in abeyance
my half contented garlic dreams
for was it not written centuries ago:

Even After All this time The Sun never says to the Earth, "You owe me." Look What happens With a love like that, It lights the whole sky.
Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī

Bleak the rays shattered through broken panes
life, dust, dust,  future and smoke
automobiles and gunshots solitary this hour
when screams rend the air, not my turn today -
no, not as yet. Mother, I want to rest my head
in your lap. Can I weep?

Cactus in my soul, I ask, Can I, all that I am?
Lust is the death of man. Gouge your eye that lusts.
Broken void of my afterdays, that mourn
like the wind on the dunes

         Mother, I am well. There is love, there is hope, light
         hidden like nuggets in piles of the dark.
         Mother, I must be well.

It was the other night. Nightmare in loop.
Shamed, stripped beaten violated.
I am in a well, deep pit, drained
of all the essence of light
I can hear your voice echoing with the ray
shattered tumbling down the walls

free, free I am the wind mourning in the dunes
can you tame the wind?

        In the depths, and in the deaths islanding life
        mirage of oases, Mother, I have found him,
        my Senor, to whom I give my ring

Violate me, visage of the abyss,
burn me, but can you find me?
beat me, chain me, but can you enslave me?
I am not here in these nerves and veins.
I am all of Augusta, America,
I fly in the Masts above the skies

Sweet Lord, I see you have deemed heaven
for me, no purgatory but here.
I accept, I surrender, I submit. To thy will.

            Mother, do not negotiate. I am strong.

Where in my naked body have you found me?
here, in these bruises, have your embers soothed?
I am the Lamb that does not cower.
I haunt your soul as guilt.
In what little's left of it.

He finds you in the catacombs where
I haunt the crypts that no vicar penetrates.
When all is lost, when death is certain at the sea,
there opens a way and I will walk out

           Mother, I am coming. Have faith, for faith maketh.
           I hold you here in my *****, smouldering pain,
           that gets me to wake every haunting day.
           Every day that brings the sound of darkness home.

*I fly in the Masts above the skies.
Tame me, I am the wind breaking the dunes.
Ilohi, lema sebachtani sebachtani

Who art thou actually to me?
That is certainly a difficult question;
to which I might have been able not
to giveth a precise answer.
Thou who were yesterday a friend;
and who conversed even so casually
with me back then;
now hath so dearly caught me
and captivated me
that I am not sure of who thou art;
and what room doth thou possess
within th' very kingdom of my heart.
Ah, and tonight, at this very rigorous,
and laborious night
Thou lured and tempted me into thy charms;
and embraced me within thy friendly realms.
Oh, querida, how I want thee too much-
simply too much!
Mi carino, mi amor;
and in fairy tales, as they are supposed to be
Thou would be my senor
And my maiden self thy senorita.
Mi amor de la príncipe!
If only thou knoweth-of how much I desire thee!
But I was sure not-it was but seemingly
unforgivable uncertainty;
whilst thou sat there and laughed beside me;
and I gazed into those patient eyes of thine.
I love thee tenderly, as thou doth emerge
within my silent dreams;
I love thee dearly, as thou didst, tonight,
craved and shaped the wit
and wise sweetness of my heart.
Thou art no-one else but my fiery dreams;
ah, thou art the one I love-
the only one I love indeed!
Thou, with the music of thy soul so sweet,
which captured my emotions so swiftly;
and entangled my passion so sweetly.
Ah, tonight-just tonight,
how thou endorsed my feelings,
and cured my daring longings!
As though in a wakeful dream,
no matter absurd it may seem;
this I declare with unbearable-
yet steady sureness:
I would love thee, surely and tranquilly,
and I hope just that thou would love me
Just like thou art already inside me;
and just how fate hath so fiercely placed
this very dear heart of mine, within thee.

Ramón Delgado- The most feared name in all Mexico.

One summer’s night in 1866 while fleeing from the Mexican Army, Ramón Delgado, infamous hired gun, and murderer, clung to his black steed whose convulsing frame showed evidence of violent exertion. Ramón whipped and spurred his mount until white froth oozed from the animal’s mouth and nostrils. Appearing as shadow across the low ridge, Ramón and steed outran the echoes created by the beating hoofs upon the rocks.

There was a time, ten years earlier, when Ramón, a tall handsome dark brown eyed, square-jawed man with black raven hair, and full Manchu mustache, held the rank of captain in the Mexican army. One day, upon returning home, he found his wife and two sons murdered by the hands of well-known local bandits. Fredrico, neighbor and friend, witnessed the murders and informed the mournful Ramon. Ramón unleashed a ruthless revenge, sought out the bandits, killing them one by one. In doing so, Ramón became hunted by the very army he had served. Some would say he had right for revenge; others thought the killings made Ramón lose his mind.

In a short distance, below the ridge, a small town lay asleep, except for the cantina. The cantina lured Ramón to an abrupt stop. He dismounted, quickly scanned the area, and then went inside. Six caballeros sat playing poker as Juan Hernandez played flamenco while his beautiful wife Maria, clapping hands and stomping feet graced the small dance floor.

Carlos Alvarado, the short black bearded bar tender, gazed at Ramón in mortal terror. Carlos, as did everyone else in the cantina, knew right away, who entered.
Ramón stepped to the bar grinning wryly. “Whisky and leave the bottle,” he growled.

Carlos, shaking, reached for the whisky bottle behind him on the shelf, nearly dropping the shot glass as he turned and sat it on the bar. Slowly backing away from the bar, Carlos offered, his voice weak, “For you Senor Delgado. No charge.”

Ramon laughed, grabbed the bottle of whisky and shot glass, and then, approached the card game. When he got to the table, one of the caballeros stood and offered Ramón a chair.

“Take my chair Senor Delgado.” The man backed away, turned, and left the cantina hurriedly.
Ramon sat in the chair, took a shot of whisky each time he looked at each of the five remaining men, and then slammed his glass to the table. “Let’s play,” he yelled.

One hour later, an empty whisky bottle is all that remained on the table. The very lucky Ramón scooped all the winnings in his pockets and then waved his revolvers above his head. Laughing deliriously, he stumbled toward the table where the senorita still danced. He began shooting close to her feet until she stumbled and fell to the floor.

Ramon placed his revolvers in the holster, turned and walked back to the bar. “Another bottle for the road,” he demanded.

Carlos looked past Ramón and moved quickly to the end of the bar. The complete silence in the cantina compared to a tomb.

Ramón sensed piercing eyes fixed to the back of his neck.
“Who is this who wants death?” Ramón uttered as he turned to face Juan.

Ramón saw Juan staring at him with deep-set dark eyes, remaining steady and full of revenge. Ramón did not see the steady hands that drew the pistols and fired the bullets of death.

A life, short, poignant, and haunted, ended by a single bullet. Ramón’s life pulse lay mangled on the floor. His disorder of demons lay nameless in shrouded form. At least now, they could no longer haunt the shadows of his mind.
His soul lay helpless in obscurity without an escape route.
As Ramón’s lungs choked in silence, his new loneliness befriended darkness and his soul

battered pinata like

Yours truly courtesy servitude
tethered existence suffers neck
brunt of yoke
fiscal recklessness got me woke
within cosmic schema,
a mere infinitesimal speck.

Insolvent crisis principally bespoke
interestingly enough
caught me off balance
sudden pennilessness
(dollar short/ day late dada)
analogous to vice grip
stranglehold doth choke
coffers emptied
*****-nilly Okey doke
colorblindness
fundamentally governed me

into zombified state
thus another plaintive plea
I repeatedly, lamely, and feebly evoke
meaning remuneration welcomed
courtesy altruistic generosity, magnanimity
and philanthropy humble
anonymous Lake Woebegone folk
ideally Norwegian bachelor farmers
to alleviate fiasco from fiendish
fraudsters frazzled father.

In plain (Schwenksville speak)
broken English,
I fell prey to hustlers
audacious, ferocious, malicious,
voracious, zealous tricksters,
who stealthily found entry
into my Macbook Pro
and locked computer screen
with threatening implication
security of mine private domain
awash with byte size bits
of valuable information
at risk of being tampered
with or obliterated.

Analogous to eminent domain of yore
mine digital terrain
manifest destiny meant war
virtual flesh and blood
regarding these lovely bones
yours truly gussied up
as chargé d'affaires
sent on risky (business) dutiful tour
to inflict comeuppance on him
who rendered me poor
as a Unitarian Church mouse,

plus I recruited
offspring of one of countless
related German Shepherd dogs
featured in fictional stories
on film, radio and television,
who starred as Rin Tin Tin
belonging to elite K9 Korp
receiving unexpected support
courtesy end of gum
(cryptic message for ye
to chew on) sympathizers
voluntarily boosted success
at recouping major financial setback
my morale viz extempore.

the sunlight makes me brighter
finally I'm awake

my youngest son can read
my oldest son can bake

my life is suffering
but not a complete mistake

Yes to Cabeza de Vaca
No to Francis Drake.

Simon opens the door. Door to the same apartment in Lisbon. But it's somehow different when he walks through the threshold. Full of people, as it used to be on weekend nights. But these are strangers, men and women he no longer recognizes, or feels any kinship with. The bottles of wine and beer and liquor are as it used to be, along with the **** on the kitchen table and the hookah by the couch. But pistols and syringes lay open upon flat surfaces now alongside the old instruments of fun. Like a dream, people whose names he didn't know greet him like a hero as he creeps through his own kitchen. Someone hands him a joint, which he hits, tastes **** and something else which make things even more surreal, passes it back to the mass, and fights his way to a chair where the tv used to be. "Simon, Simon! Just the guy to end this stalemate! Tell us, how do you feel about this ******* they're feeding us now eh!?! More austerity measures! Let those pigs **** some more and leave less for us eh?" A magazine is casually tossed in his general direction. Simon catches it by the spine, and glances at it, trying too hard to remember the name that belongs to the face on the cover. In an attempt to not be argumentative, he vaguely agrees, "Of course there are changes to be made, we all recognize that, but it's a delicate thing. The EU charter has provisions for this, but it's not being followed here. Or anywhere else though, so we can't get ahead of ourselves. Pardon me senor, can I hit that right quick?" The hookah hose is handed, a bottle is passed, and Simon gets up out of the chair. Tara is nowhere in sight, possibly *******, possibly preaching, possibly shooting up, maybe all three. Clara is in the bathroom throwing up most likely, and I don't know why I'm here, he thinks it might be something to do with a feeble hope that what he'd been told was just exaggerated rumor. He wanders the apartment that was once so full of....something else,something he couldn't name, looking for the good that he used to feel in it. People talk at him and he responds, but he doesn't really pay much attention to their comments or his responses. He finds himself on the balcony, blessedly empty, lights a cigarette and let's his memory drift. Remembers the guitar, and the wine, and the feel of her hand when she took it from him to play. He hums the tune to himself, half as a mercy and half as a torture. He remembers the shape of her shoulder and the green of her sweater, and the sunset reflected in her eyes when she slapped him, the fire in her that he has loved since that day. The fire he has been watching die for months. "You can never love someone enough to make them love themselves, usually they end up resenting you for it anyway," says a voice from behind him. Simon, in the place his mind is now isn't even surprised, simply turns to the source of the voice, a man sitting in the far back left corner. "They may end up hating you for it even. People cling to their self-conceptions harder than anything, more so than politics or religion or love. Especially if it's good clean love. Damaging, nasty love is the kind people like her need, and will never be turned away from." It's hard to make out features in the glow cast by candles and distant city lights, but Simon can see the speaker's face is aquiline, high cheekbones and a very straight nose. Brownish short hair, light and thin body, built like a runner or a Bedouin. Simon almost asks who he his, almost responds with the usual surface garbage he's been saying to people all night. Instead, he asks the almost shadow what the **** he's talking about and, more importantly who the **** he thinks he is to presume to know that kind of crap about someone you've never met. "You know exactly what, and who I'm talking about Simon. As for presuming to know things about people I've never met, I have met Tara, and Clara, and a hundred other girls like them. And I know how those stories end." "And how do you know my name, who the hell are you and what the hell do want?" Simon responded. The almost shadow's cigarette flares as he inhales and for a second Simon can see the grey eyes of a Gael, is reminded of mists and mountains, ancient memory, understands that he's being hunted. "Lots of people know your name here. I've seen that look on your face many times, worn it myself many times, and I don't want anything from you. But you certainly want something from me, even though you don'y know it yet. It's good to finally meet you Simon. You can call me Ashenden." The voice leans forward into the light and extends his hand. As Simon takes it, he looks into the face of a predator.

The idea is that religion and poetry are identical in essence and differ only in the way in which they are attached to practical affairs. Poetry is called religion when it intervenes in life and religion, when it merely supervenes upon life, is seen to be nothing but poetry.

                            - George Santayana

I agree with Mr. Borges
Paradise a library

Quaint the quiet reading
Please quicken, Celtic fairies!

Add me to your
Contact list
Senor
So I
Can
Show
You what
A real phone call
Really means.

I've been
Lonely
As it
Seems.

Should I scream?
Or wait until
I get
One last
Call.

Can’t sleep as usual, mind full of racing thoughts
Scattered and unusable, but I must connect dots
Dreams are delusional, paralyzed stomach knots
Life is quite amusable, eternal electric Alan Watts

Searching for meaning in this forever fleeting
Deceiving the future and constantly competing
Passed last stop for gas running late for meeting
Presently stuck in a moment and it’s so defeating

So what do you do?

Well… I change my tone to match the question and try and avoid the slightest detection of my macro case of dereliction by trying to fit into this new unnatural selection.  How about you?

Oh me…. I’m an administrative associate’s assistant advisor to the senor executive director of advanced growth and analytics but….

In my free time I also dabble as a life coach consultant and a freelance enthusiast, who doubles as a self loathing soothsayer who’s also exultant towards psychic’s and any genie’s wish and I pose as a ******.. analyst just to credibly prognosticate the general gist of horror scopes…I know it all sounds pretty… prophetic, but I always act humble and keep it 100 % copacetic

So if you’re making a list, wondering where all your time went, or just one of my many haters

Go ahead and get ******… later, because I’m also the president of the meetup group for ……Procrastinators.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                  Decorating for Christmas – “What Can I Do?”

A little girl tugged at my arm and asked
“But what can I do?”
I sent her to Senora Anil because I didn’t know

She came to me again and sadly asked
“But what can I do?”
I sent her to Miz Bev because I didn’t know

She came to me once again and sadly asked
“But what can I do?”
I sent her to Senor Nicho because I didn’t know

Some sturdy young teens brought in the Creche
And there the little girl knelt and placed the straw
And then each figure in turn; she talked to them
And cautioned them all to keep Baby Jesus warm

And that’s what a little girl can do

He nurses ailments
An aging Lola, keeping
Faith & Family,

Tribe of children &
Too young a Man of the House,
No crying alone.

Best meal is breakfast
He pours milk for their cereal,
Then walks them to school,

Senor Mother Goose,
A daisy chain of ducklings,
Nurses their ailments.

It is quite an event!
Gerry Atric is old enough to know that Joshua Tree isn’t the right guy for Marine Layer. Anyway, she is more interested in Donny Brook, who had just broken up with Dee Ported, for obvious reasons. There they are, carousing on the Sunset Strip: Perry Winkle, Penny Farthing, Miss Understanding and Poppy ****, when who walks in --- Sara N Dippity, with ***** Nilly and Sal Amander, one on each arm!
Now Sara used to be the significant other of Mort Ify, before him, Pete Moss, before him, Charlie Horse and before him, Al Luminum! Go figure. That leaves Tess Osterone who cannot though she tries, attract any of these fine fellows, so she nurses a drink with Terri Ble, and wails about her latest disappointment with Con Descending.
Trying to calm the situation is Herb Tea, but even he ends up having cross words with **** Tatorial, who finally splits with Paddy Wagon in tow and heads over to see Tia Juana, and if they have time, Nan Tucket.
Why General Jive and Warren Peace are huddled has yet to be explained. Oblivious to all of us Mac Aroon and Junior Mints, shared tasty morsels and a libation with Amber Beer.
Preppy dressed Cord Uroy hangs with the stylsh Art Ist, each trying to make a move on Joy D. Vivre, but they are stopped by Moe Mentum , who had the inside track up until Scott Free, Gus To and Juan Derful surround the crowd, each trying to make some time with her.
Consider Lilli Put conversing with Al Falfa, while Rich People and Cord Cutter trying to listen in, but are thwarted by Mari Gold who interfered with that desire as she was shouting epithets at Con Undrum, who doesn’t know what to do. Miss Issippi cruises in and with Molly Fi, who tries to calm the situation. Watching from the corner is Bob Cat, wary of Miss Creant, who is eying him, all while she is being scoped out by Val I Date.
If life is sometimes a desert, Mo Have personifies it; he has his own problems trying to get out of the way of Uri Nalysis, who is just plain trouble. Jonathan Club is his usual convivial self, making conversation with Trey Chrotomy, who keeps clearing his throat. I was amazed to see Leo **** getting dressed down by Dinah Mite, supported in her criticism by Dee Mise.
Let us turn to the artistic arrivals: Marshall Amp and Art Professor, both adding some zest to the gathering, enabled in part by the always attractive Dee Colletage. Bill O’Lading is a bore until he jumps into the drink with Jac Uzzi, accompanied by Nat Ural, as they view the valley below and drink champagne with Elle Vation. Bobbi Pin pops everyone’s balloon by getting wasted and along with Cara Van is asked to leave. But this paled in comparison to Al Abaster attacking Ana Conda for hitting on her significant other, Tom A. Hawk.
Everyone stays away from Hal Itosis except Sue Venir and Mel Lifluos who avoids discussing the obvious. Commiserating and having a bad time are Marg Inal and June Gloom, but then they’re always that way when they get together.
Moving up in the world is Val Et, with her new recruit, Ann Appolis, decked out in a matching outfit with Lily White. Terry Dactl flew in to convince Dee Nial she had a true friend in Mother Nature, but that she should get a second opinion from Al Egory, any to hear what Brandy Alexander had to say as long as she was not slurring her words.
Everybody loves Gus To, he’s so nice to everyone, even the plain Lyn Olium and the depressing Miss Ann Thrope. We aren’t sure what to make of Sal Amander, who seemed a bit slimy, especially coupled with Beau Dacious. What were they up to? Dan Ube engaged Earnest Money to find out. He reported they were going to fleece Dan Druff and Butch Haircut, who should not invest in their hair-brained scheme.
Al Abama buttered up Cy Pres, hoping for some charity, while Minnie Scule and Tara Bite made an unlikely duo. “Respect” said Jen Uflect, that’s what everyone deserves, as she curtsied at the arrival of Caesar Salad. “Ha, ha, ha,” Heidi ** merrily exclaimed, joined by the mysterious I Stanbul. All he did was complain about the political situation.
Mary Me cannot get enough of Al Falfa, though she would have done better with the always engaging Mo Zart. Too bad he is always with Tom Foolery and Cass Anova, both with questionable motives. I know for a fact that Beau Dacious has crashed this party, pretending to have an invite from Des Ire. Outside, mystified by the diverse assemblage stands Papa Razzi, camera in hand. Hal Leluha tries to talk his way in, but gets nowhere is he is not on the list, says party planner Claire Ify. Mel Ifluous, on the other hand, though not an invitee, does get past the velvet rope, which I surmise is because he is with that wealthy Main Liner, Phil Adelphia.
Back inside the party I encounter Lazy Susan having a drink with Bud Weiser.  Here’s an unusual assortment: Guy Dance, Major Minor, Hazel Nuts and Scott Free. His choice of clothing questionable, Lee Derhosen paints a pretty picture about his life to Al Fresco, who is dismissive. Maybe that is because Mo Hawk puts him down, but he gets some protection from Val Id. Dee Tatched, never a joiner, talks business with Perry Mutual, who is threatened by his nemesis, Vito Power. Jungle Jim back from his travels, has a new mate, Lazy Susan, she having moved on from Leo ****.
How Riff Raff got an invite is shocking and I hope he will depart soon with Lee Ving, Bob N Weave, and Con Descenion. Louis Ville slugs it out, batting away the negative but truculent comments of Claire Ification. Tim Buktu acts like he is in another country, causing Mort Ified to hang his head, all made worse by the mutterings of Carrie On.
Mentor Ing tries to advise Con Flagration to cool it and is helped by
Dolly Grip and Frank Lee Speaking. Stu Pendus addresses each issue raised by Bill O’ Particulars, but he cannot allay the suspicions of Artie Choke, finally saying he must be in a vegetative state if he cannot understand the implications of what he proposes. Bo Tox just stood there, trying to look good.
The last to leave is Senor Ity. Phil Harmonic and June Bug drive him home where he lives with Dana Point and Sherman Oaks.