Hard times in New York town

Caught the bus to Jamaica, Queens, this morning. Picked up a bag of escarole, caught the bus right back home. I got a lot of living to do ‘fore I die, and I ain’t got time to waste. On the bus back, I saw a man holding a package of what looked to be napkins, though they could have been really boring bandannas. Looking closer, I realized the man was Dean Martin. I sauntered over to him and stuck out my hand. –Hey, Deanzo, I’ve got an idea for you. Why don’t you come on over to my apartment and we’ll play some hearts with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern? He slapped my face, and I his. He stood, and we danced. Napkins, or bandannas, fluttered about like so many hummingbirds, and the bus was soon filled with the shouts of happy children, revelling in a blizzard of napkin, or bandanna, naïve to the whips and scorns of time, and to the great sadness of man’s decline.

Speak Easy

Last night, I went with my friend, Sheldon Welmsbley, to the pork pie hat factory for some late night experiments. We ran into Jamaica Steve and his compadres. Jamaica Steve was the numbers runner at my grammar school, and after I hit a combination one afternoon, I gave him a signed painting of a giraffe I had done in art class that day. He told me last night that he kept it in his den now, and that he gets a lot of nice compliments about it.  Sheldon asked him how his wife was doing, and he told us she had left him for Ted Danson. Our condolences.

Speeding, speeding, light but no form, we watched the cars pass, each with its cargo of man and wife and child and mistress, pain and acceptance and hope and concession.