So What

Here’s a drink for anyone dropping the needle on Miles. So What. I call it a coconut éclair. I pour in a boomerang of failure, sprinkle it with a trivial faux pas and add a pinch of destination. It excites the nerves and corkscrews the drudgery of pantomime. Here’s my bio: I’ve got three arms, five legs, twelve hundred prescriptions, thirteen faucets, a gruff exterior, a presumptuous magnetism, a small rebellion in my left eye, a keen sense of weightlessness and an array of exotic genitalia. My first name gave up on me and got a job with a suffix in Sussex who coughs up nearsighted reindeer whenever it ovulates. I enjoy writing letters to little towns in Florida. I like hopping around on a pogo stick when the weather gets fidgety and licking postage stamps whenever I’m feeling beige. Drink up, my friend. Tomorrow may be too late to mop our brows with regret. I see a cherub who sees what we already know, which is conveniently reversable, and upholstered with a foamy commiseration. I want you to feel tactical. Look east and you’ll see a surge of duration. Look west and you’ll see a garage dying in its own didacticism. Look north and you’ll see freakish display of eczema. Look south and you’ll see yours truly, fishing for goodwill in a pool of disavowal. This is a perplexing point for some, but for others a simple doxology of larks in a sultry Alabama quatrain.