Evening Pilot

by christopher taylor

Driving home at quarter after ten. Where did the evening go? Ah, yes. Television. With the sig-o. And likely a meal of some sort. There usually is. Member-sponsored Newark jazz station. Nicer than the commercial ridden twenty song pop stations. Nicer than the inane chatter. Slightly. A fellow is screboba schlumbudamuscha budap bap bapping. Fail to ape. Well. A few oversized drops fall. Molten lava. Bloated midget tears. Cloud ejaculations. Yum. Wipers on. Check the lights. Stupid. Quarter after ten.