EXIT. STAGE LEFT. The thought urgently popped into Geneva’s head. But the emaciated orange robed man wasn’t having it. Cursed with aggressive politeness from her Southern upbringing, she was trapped. He recognized her as a fly he’d killed in a former life. The whole incident had been a terrible accident. Would she forgive him? Geneva gave him a hard slap across his left ear. “How do you like it asshole?” she laughed.

.

Dashboard Buddha in an SUV

Master with a mantra and a transcendental flirt
Armani sandals and a Tommy Bahama shirt
Single malt whiskey in a cup of green tea
And a dashboard Buddha in an SUV

Yeah, dashboard Buddha in an SUV
Bobble head buddy always smilin’ at me
Sure beats buskin’ by the old Bo Tree
Got a dashboard Buddha in an SUV

Bodhisattva with a day job cruisin’ to the mall
Dalai Lama ridin’ shotgun dreamin’ of Nepal
Meditation glide in perfect luxury
Dig a dashboard Buddha in an SUV

Om, dashboard Buddha in an SUV
Velcroed Fatty teachin’ me to just be
Pedal to the path livin’ so simply
With a dashboard Buddha in an SUV

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TWYLA READS the business card: “Bart der Schnauzbart, Professional Moustache Whisperer.” Self conscious about the faint Frieda Khalo infestation obscuring her philtal columns, she glares at Bart. Oblivious to the source of her hostility, he offers with a nervous laugh: “I’m a barber. I train mustaches. See?” He twirls the edges of his own immaculate facial fur in illustration. Bart is in luck. Twyla likes goofy guys.

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“IT’S A SIMPLISTIC and dangerously naïve idea,” says Ruben. He considers himself a big fan of John Lennon, but has “no interest in giving peace a chance!” The last thing Wanda hears walking out the door is: “I ‘Imagine’ a world where artists stick to entertainment and keep their stupid ideas to themselves!” The last Ruben sees of Wanda, she’s moving away down the sidewalk wagging both middle fingers in his direction.

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BEELZEBUG FEARLESSLY moseys across the lavatory floor feeling pious certainty of divine authority. He’s the revered foundation of a vast, clandestine, creepy-crawly kingdom. A dark specter spirals down from above, summarily transforming him into a splotch of inanimate gore. Furtive hands sheath Beelzebug’s remains in a shroud of white tissue. Beyond porcelain shores, the residue is tossed to a swirling burial at sea

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