A day at the Beach

Please explain more fully?

No no no friends, this is fill in the blanks

(in the coffee shop)
Rocker Boy threatens boycott unless they sell him fair trade; ‘Fair enough,’ is the unfunny barista pun. Blondie's all haggard, has read too many books; Pink Cardigan carries a pair of Gap bags, and Fat Ass struggles with her first-generation inferiority complex. Nice Rack waddles onto Kew Beach Queen East with her boyfriend the Skinhead Mechanic; teeny-tot Markhamites stroll past, put their recycling in the wrong slot. And all of sudden it’s two minutes later.

In the city core speed is not two-dimensional, ie V doesn’t = D/T. It’s 3-D velocity: V depends on density ie V = people-distance/ time.

Conniving women and their two timing and I miss the one who did me no wrong. Where is she?... I miss those Latin mommas, and one in particular, I think she was my third cousin, and dude, she was something else.

Each word I put down is a thousand that I don’t; we invented language to deceive each other, yes, but sure there’s evil among termites and bumblebees and filthy skinks too.

But this is no iceberg:

Walt’s wisdom and Wilde’s wit, twit fiascos and the paschal sacrifice, the bow ties we tie to the balloons for a birthday party in an April afternoon. August shirt sleeves still seem far, and the mad March melting snow is down by law. Tom Petty is movin me honey and the dogs are struttin, it’s the streetcar rumble through the high-class lunch district. Burning love and churning nastiness cusses like a roadkill crow with a slick-edge squishy-squirrel spatula. A box of chiclets and a Zimbabwe autocrat convene at a convenience store purchase in the suburbs of Harare; I’m here firing lines like dragnets, banking on the big one, my fishfaced peculiarities rearing on hind legs like hound-dog pullovers, and the telephone-pole company's going under, under the ground, to fibre-optic sounds--better than all previous technologies combined (!); we're zapping mosquitoes by twilight like so many unwanted Tutsis. And the yellow fox regiment marches east to meet the ninth artillery brigade, and Napoleon didn’t create artillery “he just exploited existing advances in a brilliant fashion” and the real reason he walked over the moon in a swooning seaside swirl was the arrival of the rain in Russia, the utter soaking at the Battle of Borodino. Retreat, oh no, not good--how am I supposed to get home in the rain? But nothing clears the sidewalk like a cloudburst. And ah, there’s the job for me: Painting all the fire engines yellow, dancing in the sprinklers, setting off the alarms.