S T R E A M # 4
The dog ate the tomato at the stroke of midnight. When he told me this I referred him to the nearest post office because they might have missed it. The post office likes to know about the whereabouts of dog-consumed tomatoes. Exactly why they want to know is a matter of national security. This is what they tell me. And I ate a tomato at a quarter past ten last night, but the post office doesn’t care. They only care about the dog. Which is exactly why I need to drink coffee after every TV show that displays cats eating tomatoes at the diner across the street from Jack. I don’t know who Jack is. I don’t know who Tom is. I knew a Tom once. I know a different Tom now. I’ve probably known a few Toms in my life. This is the job description from the deposit account in San Francisco. When I tasted the lima bean it tasted like ice cream from the Bob in Detroit. I’ve known a few Bobs, too. Time to turn up the music. I drink tea when I eat at the Chinese place across from the train station. I’ll