A night of poetry from slower lower Delaware.
I was sitting here typing -- not hurting anyone -- when I run into a tangent from the past, The E-Train Wayland, a jittery, pasty, chronic masturbator who once shared a bunk with a Mexican admiral. I met Wayland while we were both living in Newark, Delaware. He was a strange, but sage man then. A Holy Man, he once applied a thick layer of viscous "Death Hot Sauce" to his coin purse. I think he was trying to purify the house we were both sharing with some guy who had a solid haircut. At any rate The Train hooted like a screech owl, poured vodka down his throat and made gristly predictions of the future -- it was shortly after Bush had been inaugurated President, so The E-Train's methods might be unconventional, maybe uncomfortable, but they work.
Well, E-Train is back and he's writing poetry. I found this in my inbox. Keep in mind his power.

There is nothing like going to Arby's on a Tuesday night.
Going through the DriveThru getting a Big Montana Value Meal
(make sure you get extrahorsey sauce!)
eating in the parking lot
and playing an endlessloop of Desperado
(sometimes I throw in Witchy Woman if the moodstrikes me).
After the meal, grabbing a periodical, I head into Arby's to go to the real office and do the Junior Jumble Crossword.Now that is a good day!
-Wayland