he talks to rocks

meet the localities in the tri-state area.

and an old favorite.

A jagged rock hits the head of Sir Buenos Aries. BA feels a shock, and sips a packet of tea. Strolling along the avenue past a construction site could be deadly if the right people know how to carry out the deed. This is probably why the mafia controls a lot of construction; easy disposal. Cakewalk into the foundation: lost magnifying glass, old phone number (EV9-4999), #3.5 pencil, white conté crayon, small bones of a hamster, old soda bottle, fifty-two copies of Saturday Evening Post, religious and socialist pamphlets, grey overalls, many bottle caps and cigarette butts. Passing the stash of fortune’s idleness, the inquisitive Sir BA, decked out in corduroy and acrylic, takes a handful of cement and fires a shot at the side of the aluminum siding separating the site from the street. The demarcation slams hard and sounds a loud B flat note. No one is around, and he strikes a match on his shoe and lights a Chesterfield. Cakewalk back from to the street: more butts and caps, same Saturday Evening Posts (takes a gander at Rockwell’s art), old wigs (brunettes, reds and blondes) one black and one purple moustache, rusty lunchbox, discarded Eggo boxes, old sardine tins reflecting the red of the setting sun, lampshades, a box marked “bric-a-brac,” a small figure of a ninja, sixty-nine pieces of sheetrock, forty-eight sheets of sandpaper of various grits, large barrels collecting water where sparrows and starlings wash themselves in. Tired of the mystery of the mysterious rock thrown mysteriously out of an old construction site filled with mysteriousness, Sir Buenos Aries retires to the café tables across the street. Entranced in the rays of the disappearing sun, cakewalking would only delay inevitable inebriation. Instead of having another amaretto orange, BA took down Amsterdam to the entrance of Bitter Drake’s Fine Spirits. He craved the junipers of Seagrams. For a while, he’d feel pain and relief at the drops of gin on his tongue.

Cakewalking kills idleness.