the cocktail hour finally arrives: whether ending a day at the office or opening the orifice at 6am [legal again to pour in californica]: the time is always right we need a little glamour and glamour arrives: plenty of chipped ice a green jurassic palm tree planted. a yellow spastic monkey swinging a pink classic flamingo impaled upon the exuberant red of cherries dash of bitters. vermouth sweet. enough rye whiskey to kill this longing: I take my drinks still and stuffed with plastic. like my lovers my billfold full of rubbers. OPENs my mouth: its tiny neon lounge
I have had to learn the simplest things
last. Which made for difficulties...
We know from accounts of the judgment of Paris how Love took first: the apple burnished by—it turns out—her own husband, working the bellows, forging to Discord's specifications, her need to break the spaghetti strands of marriage, her undiluted vitriol, that oversaw his flux and foundry, guided the sparking hammer to its urgent deed. Spoils of war. Power, undeterred and wily as it always is, the figural eye and its agency, took gladly the second chair, from which advantage machinations could be seen. Advised, conferred, deployed the second wave of ships, provided mercenary aid to every side and fanned the air, and made her counsel with all sides, supporting every one and none, out-waiting tides. If we believe the Greeks, the spokes of Fortune's wheel in constant turn would allow the last to be the first—beatitudes bestowed upon the losing side, a draught of time in which the wily ones, by their equine portage made the mind the victor over Love's inconstancy and strife, and, over brute acts, gave thought dominion in a golden age. But that's just myth. Wisdom, you are the last to whom I turn. Not for your spear, fashioned in that same fire as all bright jealous objects of desire. But for your shield. Protect the least of us. Or lift me from this battlefield, and take me home.