Vaughn, Laslow, and John, Drinking at Agatha Bean's

Facing west, also habit under with...

In the middle of it's lot sharing time with some loose gravel sits the apex of all squandered pretenses further squandering itself. In the 20's Agatha Bean's was a white shuttered shack with false lanterns tacked up beside it's front door. Ever since Agatha's lost it's lanterns the cubby brick shack has been painted not-white about as often as any not-white could be had. But it's front door has remained as black as pitch-drizzle. Betta, the old lady that owns the place also owns the filling station a few blocks away. Bud and LU live there when the weather gets sticky. On morning's like that Betta comes into the bar and pours a shot for the dusty tinkers on the rim of their day.
Agatha's never closes, meaning that it's been open every day for decades. The place is shaped like a calendar so the mixed blessings that wander in won't get lost. Agatha's is warm and mellow with it's variations on a tarnished afternoon staggered like stools along the bar. I raise my hand to the woman sleeping under Benny's cubby stuffed with it's chaucer-hats and chunky tin boxes. Vilma nods, her drip of a chin bounces on her chest and she blinks.
The place is filled with the labored plinking from the paneled spool player in the back. Stripped for the cause, it's our bland, bland, bland, bland... Vaughn continues on intently. Owing to this magnet of essential light, we claim tile and tile towards it once again... This is not a victory but it is the righteous way removed...

We don't like McCow's so we soak up our hypothetical moose rays and all of their cosmic meanings right here. I sit next to Laslow and he sits next to me. We'll talk about drinking and smoking and being most foul. We'll talk about the honorable and mystical flag of the Platz. How it features a pale green field with a broad blue stripe and 4 white stars below a chevron. Laslow might even note that some people have interpreted the chevron as the uppercase variant of the symbol a few over from the Pi, the symbol some call a Lambda...
I might say to him, For my money, I've always felt it looks like a house with 4 stars living in it.

He might say, You know the Doc's still going right?

Totem

Tonight is old. It's wett but current and bored. I'm watching nothing but stars in the often sky that happen... do... tonight is lame like old, young like song, even as blue... Equal after the sun, noon or scripted yellow you are to me... A we (as sound)

Songlet is Best

fig.0231) FizzGraf MT. "Magical, like a chorus of like minded souls in a froth of cotton fumes." Over fake doors, under refurbished ladders, gypsum board and bent yellow pipes offering us an unmade bed and a stained window. Our one chance at tomorrow. Magnetic guts from at least a thousand cassettes are strewn across the room. Hee-Haw style, fancy dress shoes cling to the floor like it's '86 all over again. Hee-Haw, goes the sound. Hee-Haw, we're closer then we were. Hee-Haw, it's hilarious. Listening for trains, leaning out over the rails like two people with no time at all. Better maps, that's what we need. We could use a melody for singing with this chorus; in whose curious presence more patients wait to be found. With hands over our heads, someone passes by and asks, "gender?" There's stars in this sweet tooth of mine and some atoms left from the sky, Tonight the whole angle of heaven sleeps without light. Ordering its coffee darkest, t

Whiskers, chanting, "swap me, swap me!"

Fig.32) Aging poorly We're just together, taking ourselves for a tidy sum of walk and now our toes are wet and cool in the Lak, beside a cool stone that could drive a modernist to their flint. There's a listening experience that feels prepared, "our's for now, ours it says! Here's the hammer and it's wrapped in its own design already. A union in time-space, this card is our greetings, our massive, our very patience is reflected in this resolve." Suddenly, there's a cut away and she's wearing the pants that I've made for her, slow blue like painted smoke . I'm thinking about her hunched over the kitchen table, something that's stuck. There's a carving knife in her hand but from here, it's the same as an old spoon. From here my computer is sitting on my guilty seat, I'm thinking about champagne and comparing it to a thick wad bees and wondering whats in it for me? It's an anxious season, filled with not enough of anythin

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