Ayn Rand loves a good architect joke

fig. 239) The kitchen, the bath, and all of the people hate your painting too.

"Mike, Mike do something."

From somewhere far off an alarm, a klaxxon and several bells can be heard bouncing around. The big firehouse was constructed in the teens. A mule team and 6 drunk ignorants voted to do the job right but it still took three bricklayers a month apiece to even try. Finally after a couple of years they finished up and then the market crashed, "The masons never explain anything."
"No they never do."
"What," John Lurie is eating his own ghost again. There's some confusion and the waiter returns. CB and MB are next to him. They're talking about the kids when they look and see the smoke. Of course the server arrives with water. He's confused too, "Lemons?"
CB say's, "Mike, Mike do something now."
The kitchen is hot. The swinging door lets out great white puffs along with the occasional yelp from a frustrated busser but the dining room is getting even louder.
"I remember this," We slide down the pole and I look over at Elyse. She's small in her heavy boots but the axe is safely secured to its harness. Jennifer was a handful but Elyse bounced right back, she got better quick. "The punchline is, our son is dating Rambo right?"
"Stephen!"
There's a bright flash from the walkin cooler. The produce and the kegs full of house pilsner are back there. A woman with a pot roast is walking in circles saying, "Sam, I don't think Sam ever got out." Then CB tries to comfort her.
"Tomorrow morning the paper will almost certainly speak of his virtues," she tells the pot roast woman. "His simple ways, and the tidy shop he kept are important now. Art should never have to die, that's just unconscious knowledge. Alright, so that's a riff on Janes Addiction. Mike will do something about these boys," CB sobs.
Just then, Elyse bursts into the dining room, Stephen has a steel hook on a long pole then the wall falls over and Republicans are everywhere. The kitchen staff stands agog over a pile of stones and broken plumbing. There's a table covered with plucked friers collecting dust from the settling plaster. There's a silver door and a mop handle, "That one is hiding the pregnant lady, don't."
Stephen looks around, "Did you see who said that, Elyse?"
"No, it's just like that time we were arrested on Thanksgiving at a nuclear proliferation rally with students and members of our PBS affiliate. Then Ned surprised us with a visit, but we found out he was running from the FBI for embezzling millions of dollars and I was trying to raise money for an immigrant education program. Alex tried helping that little Vietnamese boy but we never saw Ming again and after that the house was broke into but we couldn't decide on a gun to protect our family. It's like Mallory swimming. It's like Alex learning camera. I'm looking at ten pounds of confusion and a three pound sack for my empty bucket of salty tears, Stephen."

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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