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It
is her job, after all,
to
make him feel better.
Him
being he who says least,
his
puerile rebellion reduced
to
unthinking aesthetic essence.
But
most of the things he thinks about
are
of no importance to her:
genre
as social action,
corporate
semiosis,
an
episode of the Lone Ranger involving a black widow,
hygienic
governance & social morbidity,
the
apogee of the asset bubble,
the
fluttering of an anxious middle.
(Also
she thinks he is stupid.)
Always.
The
sea somewhere booms.
A
stream rushes loudly.
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