Excursion, with footnotes

Sunday I went to Mimico with a flamenco-dance flamingo called Maraca Natty Senko: lives in Camp Tawingo, plays acoustic classical and gnaws a purple mango.
(we drove past Lakeshore, that’s where it ended; at Royal York it’s north, and you never see the lake again.)

At Yonge and Lawrence there’s a busy coffee shop devoid of personality; that’s where it all happens. I can see through the citizens fleeing to their afternoon respites and it is easy to write write write when white blankness (blank whiteness?) is all around--spherical silence like stereo surround.

But I’m like an instant teller; I can tell instantly that you need a hug. You you you clutch that latté like a security blanket; you hanker for good tube time to set you free, to light the farthest fence post guiding on the walk back home, frothing like espresso machine mad dogs and flimsy polystyrene cutouts on the Dufferin St. telescope strip. Hey hey the walls of Jericho fell the other day, so rake up stray bricks into recycling piles, to further your ambition of neighbourhood regeneration. We’re starting up a re-evolution, the kind of progress clearly necessary; we will drink away our yesterdays in the Purple Jesus tub, we will ask each other longingly for warm back rubs.

In the boardroom sits the beleaguered accountant, swearing into his palm pilot, head in palm, wondering what became of his friends, the physiatrist, the blinking slick-backed football player who might have made a boffo dentist. It’s odious coagulation of pent-up past competing with inert adolescent regrets, so I pop my minty clorets, breathing freshness into this chlorine bleached parchment, inspiring chlorophyllic respiration and NO-2 fits of jest. “Have you seen my raccoon face? The trick is in the wrists; curl your fingers into binoculars; go giggling in the mist.”

O dear, you never made it to my sofa--that’s where I give my massive heart attack massages; I can pencil you in for February, though it’s shorter than them all.

I entered Yorkdale from the sidewalk circus revolving door, beheld Babylon in her glory, and the giant indigo chain that will never sell my books--but I enjoy sniffing the candles so I walk in and have a look. On the display table there is Heather’s Pick and Oprah’s Picks and I wonder—am I the only man who reads? A glut of prissiness, ‘In Style' nazinas ruling our marketplace for thought. What of tractors, testicles and skanky bi-otches? Now that’s some manly literature. Baby get undressed--I’ll read the sexy journals, I’ll write like Hunter S.

But now and again you wreck me. You really do.

ps don’t yell at me xoxo u no hoo

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