A short guy with glasses. He looks a little like George Costanza,
but he’s not Jason Alexander.
How could you not have known?
She told you in confidence.
Another, different guy with glasses.
Six people with astonishing facial features all crowded around –
what is that? A cauldron? Hard to say through all the fog.
The cigarettes sold at state minimum are gayer than you ever imagined,
gayer even than the large-breasted mannequins you spank to at night.
She was under the impression that things would get better,
an impression you gave her.
She had a rough time at Thanksgiving.
You probably are, but that’s none of my business.
Who’s this third guy with glasses?
Being perfectly honest, I did not know her well.
Mea culpa, etc.
Let me tell you a secret about me –
A pair of eyeballs rides a taxicab,
regal as the dream of Miss America.
Lions were very popular with the wealthy Florentines.
They won’t let us forget that.
See how they’ve erected a PETCO on the grave of their beloved Simba? I’d walk to that.
Every time you adopt one of our animals,
Abraham Lincoln sprouts a tie-dye halo.
Supergirl has mushrooms. She makes a meal:
tahini sauce on large black dog.
Pot leaf social democrat: escort us straight to a lifestyle of credit cards and maple candy!
Please, Jeanne d’Arc, tell me more about Jesus,
about his buffalo meat, his ostrich oil,
how he was beset on all sides by today’s cheeses:
locust, tarot card, lavender.
Hare Krsna, Hare Krsna: thank you for understanding that the bank owns my bicycle.
A man in latex gloves screams WHITE BEAN,
shoves his toothpick in the eyes of strangers.
Pull the withered rose from Gandhi’s ear.
There’s no water on Mars. We go there when we die.
on eating waffles in bed, you savage,
& watching several hours of a television show you don’t actually like all that much,
& shopping for groceries (twice, two separate stores),
& climbing into your own apartment through the bathroom window,
touching down on the wet-moon surface of the tub still damp from your own shower –
but at least you finally got up the nerve to
inquire about membership in the International Socialist Organization
& call your estranged father for the first time since mom kicked him out of the house.
Of course, he turns out to be a dick but whatever —
(Meanwhile, the pharmacist says happy birthday! with a straight face.
Your sertraline prescription rings up three dollars cheaper than normal. Take that as its own kind of gift.)
After Yoko Ono
Invite your friends to a dinner party at your house or apartment.
Try to invite the most unlikely group of friends you can.
It is best when none of the attendees know each other.
(They’ll all know you, because they are your friends, but try to arrange a party where you are the only person each of your attendees knows.)
At the dinner party, ask everyone to reminisce about the times you all shared together.
Be clear that all fond memories shared must be memories of events in which everybody present took part.
There are, of course, no such events, because none of the people here know anybody else at the party (except you).
Do not let this stop the reminiscing.
Get everyone involved.
The dinner party does not end until everyone at the table has shared at least one reminiscence.
(You can raise the number of required reminiscences per person, if you’d like).
Serving alcohol will help with the flow of conversation and encourage buy-in, but try to make sure no one gets too drunk.
That will ruin the mood.
(The definition of “too drunk” depends entirely on your preferences.)