At the Lawrence Juber Invitational

Members only got up that morning, and the rest had a siesta in Tatooine’s dual suns. They tore about and found the originals in a stockpile of lard, greasy sums of sweat extracted for a poor dog left behind in the nuptials. We tugged our collars and tore the branding from our shirts to generate a truly arbitrary neutrality, giving ballast and lambasting Gibbons, naturalist Euell and the Ballard of sci-fi, J.G.

Oh, he’s a fine one, alright—a factor of friction whose abrasiveness knows no viscosity, whose measures work in direct opposition to metrics, whose very essence teams with breem and carp. You mark that. I’m telling you now strange wonder to mark that. Remember the so-called “fine hooch” at the hoosegow.