For Benjamin Hollander

How do you know me here? I'm not the Russian hit man from your dreams with coffee. Sitting with your back to the world and your eyes peeled open is tiring. Your pile of debris, hashed marks, a stain from the empty cup you spoon feed froth. The last time it was tradition, we argued about process. The nineteenth century's liberal clap trap couldn't find a place between orthodoxy and orthopraxy. Too many buckets to make a category, too few subjects for ontology. Olson didn't creep into the mood; but the territory seemed oddly familiar. The carrot cake is good but I can't dance to it; your gesture is fattening. When you're tired of the laughs think about how soon we'll be taken seriously out of context and smile.