Why shovel snow when a Spring will come to melt it?
Why drain a swamp when global warmth of the sun will facilitate evaporate a mop-up operation?
Yoki meets with Jokie, as Walt Whitman with Oscar Wilde, as Eppie J. with Noam Chomsky and Woodie Allen. Was Eppie J., as raconteur and raccoon, as bon vivant with serpent’s plume, on a par with Yoki, Jokie, Walt Whitman and Oscar Wilde? Yoko Ono? We can’t speak of an Eppie J.’s literary legacy even if he crossed paths with Truman Capote, not out of the question.
Noam Chomsky is a towering figure, figuratively and literally, literarily, of Manhattan TWIN TOWERS towering, chomping at the bit, fashioning a vaudeville, or computer language, byte, bit showering. Eppie J. mooned as a spring sun swooned down on a silvery glowering Chomsky, reading up on AI and genetic mutations, hair and beard gone wild, wild, wild,
West.
Yet Jeffie had hit a snag. An irascible rag, a blunt trauma nuage, a ‘Traumnovelle.’ A palm beach hurricane manatee… Miami Herald Cuban wannabe, wannabe hard, into the white or yellow or Pam Bondi sand, a Bay of Pigs, a bummer, a Mafia godfather, an incantation of rag, woman, tilt back, Pam, Palm Beach Pam, going spam to support a Prez who gets things done.
Dropping into Teetleboro, his express expressed. He will go to gaol, Mannahattas without maracca.
House arrest for Jeffie was game over. His reputation, ruined, blemished on a single count of soliciting an underage prostitute, if he had to fight a come back, hopefully it would be Moslem, the way Muhammad Ali did, while Jeffie was teaching at Dalton School, where he was a pleasing fool.
Hit parade, monkey around, ask a camel to be painted in gold, and passed around. A camel in prison, ‘midst pyramids, profound. Where hip desks are shifted to get a good look, where sights most mystical, ask for a crook– or a hook. Be Wall Street, or Treasure Island, bound. Or a crook with an arm hook, or a siren most cunning, cunnilingus, strapped to the ground. Strapped to the ground, as a manatee, a mantua mating, a widow-to-be, a manatee Mannahattas, to say nothing of the platypus.
He did more or less a year, but it was not hard time. It was soft time. A jangle in the clouds. On the order of house arrest. On the order of doing what he’d always done. In other words, daily massages, assignations and advisements, and all the rest.
Spam of Human Affection 
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