24MOTAB- it's what's for breakfast
remember not so long ago when summer's blush was on the land and the sweet fragrant stench of mulch perfumed the multitudinous clouds of mosquitoes that swarmed in the dusk of a sun that never set on an empire so fair that poets were moved to lay down their pens and take jobs as cashiers in all night gas stations that locked the doors of their restrooms to guard against vagrant hippie drug dealers who had dropped out of MIT in their final semester because God spoke to them in a mushroom addled daze that could only be shaken off with tons of coffee, donuts and cigarettes procured from a vending machine at the end of the hallway on the way to rear exit of that VFW bar you used to go to when all the other bars had banned you or had closed due to proximity of churches and/or elementary schools that had two martini lunches stuffed into bookbags carried by children who could breath air that was perfumed with the acrid stench of leafy matter in plastic bags dreaming of summer's blush when the crack of the bat signaled that someone somewhere was juicing. Do you remember that? Do you? Me neither.
Business as usual this Sunday.