fig.034) if I were a thousand word title, I'd know where to go Old and tardy, his slim shorts are overstuffed with giant white balls. But his shirt is the same dull as a stain of mustard once loosened with some lake water and a drop or two of Diet Pepsi. His shirt's buttons hang, they've clearly gone from tarnish over to the subtle embarrassment that's akin to a crooked tie that's caught on fire while checking the toast. "I tink you know, what it is I am say-ink?" "What I tink for christ! What I tink is that you've been an ass. That's what I tink." "I don't like your shoes either. They have those dribbles, dribbles all over the toes." "Preacher, go fuck your cleaner!" "There'll be more in awhile, they'll say. When I say to them, we're toothless but not too weird. The tacit yet repulsive angel still ponders Chicago's front steps with a warm beer drips on his shoes. Petey mutters d