Now I lay me down on the table
Begins the fable about Betty Grable
Wacky intro announces fantasy to follow
The nightly rub out trips the kaleidoscope
Coloring the ride around the block with her inspiration
Perspiration
A soundless incantation around the force field
Leaving her fingertips entering my sanctuary
More foreplay than sorting the recycling
I've grown accustomed to her touch
and have become her best character
Her vaccine for the unknown
A midnight rider of angst-free dreams with
Undistributed love nectar
Giggling toddler-like at the best ponyride
Since Mona made harmonica a pitch pipe for nasty
I'm her groupie like the model who sat for Leonardo
Unaware of her destiny of posterity
The original used for tracings by oiled forearms
Combining the tissue
With our soul



\_/\_/ a toast to the table - give us this day our daily
Kneads

I get to sit here and write about making it all the way down from the 122nd floor in spite of being the pilot who crashed into the building. Believe me, those dinosaurs never saw the asteroid coming and all the pity humanly possible wouldn't alter the rightness of the universe one iota.

This is possible for a wave maker because the pillars of my being are Runyonesque and vicariously fulfilling to the point where poignant fantasy flows via penis dementia are not only probable but perpetual. Casting aside the destructive effects of living for vows for vows' sake is a recipe for aberrance that need not be belabored here. Honor your commitments, live up to your promises but when self-destruction is in place, don't wait for someone to yell "FIRE" to evacuate the premises. The old bromide about being a living survivor rather than a dead hero is harsh but it's an option.

These days when 2nd wind is essential are reminders of the need to keep mobile with endurance and the ability to sustain. otherwise, it's "stay on the bus and forget about us, something about a ribbon and an oak tree . . . .