So one day the late Bird highly fortified strolls into this posh
boite itself and down there, leaning on the bar, is Wallace
Stevens—newly arrived, old LLD tucked away, sheepskin in
wolf, flirting with the minishirted bartendress—whom he
welcomes. My friend, a hard man's good to find, as we used
to say over in The Styx. Here it's an altogether different fettle
of quiche, of course. It's still the early word that gets the
berm, the latter pater patters back and hunches over. Hey,
my alto ego, does that point have a story? the other asks, and
orders up—with Lady Day's delayed demise in mind—a stiff
White Cadillac. In the beginning was the Weird, one raises
his glass and stipulates, and then the other. Be thou me.
Bops, and then the Lucid and the Ludic juke together off, a
pair of irrational numbers, each trying to hang longer, surds of
a feather, simply patriarchal. Old Testicle and New together.