IMPROMPTU YARN

He needs to hear it. He's all bottled up. His cap ain't snapped, and so he sits in carbonated Silence.

He works by night and sleeps by day and he can't get enough of daytime talk-shows.

Double-crossed bulls-eyes.

"Fuck this shit," he says to his dog. His dog raises his head. He is a goodboy. He is solid. He is Friend.

"You and me, Lassie," the man says, "we'll bust the god-damned motherfucking safe wide the fuck open. You and me, boy." And the man turns to his Irish coffee, brewed right, brewed strong. "We--you and I--we could turn this city upside-down, if we wanted to. Do we? Lassie?"

The dog snorted and returned to his nether regions.

"You and me," the man mumbled. His eyelids grew heavy and so he let them rest on his cheekbones. Behind his eyes, he saw a cacaphony of Bliss, colors left to the describer. Behind his eyes, he saw televisions being crushed and he saw a Humanity creating their own entertainment.

Lassie farted.

And...? It stunk.

The dog was not impressed, nor was the writer, the yarner, the fakir. (Fake.)

And the Talent wheedled down the road. Went bye-bye. Said adios. Gone.

--gone--