Menu, Or Bill Of Warfare

in Culture

Like most of you, I spent a fair share of yesterday reading the Senate Judiciary Committee testimony of Glenn Simpson. A PDF encapsulation of nine hours of back and forth between the founder of Fusion GPS and senate investigators. You know, the Steele memo. The thing that Buzz Feed published. I think it was about mindfulness in Moscow, or gratitude about that former GUM store.

Hey, if the current POTUS can continually wax nostalgic about comrade Clinton, why begrudge my return to that warm romance of the Cold War and all things Checkpoint Charlie. Simpler times.

And a current spin around the block with the Coda puppy feels a bit like a Khrushchev Thaw, as it’s mid-fifties here… damn near, after two weeks of minus 30 or so below.

Went The Way Of The Supper Club


I want to take
my broad to a
Supper Club

I want to take
my dame to a
Supper Club
for a
“Steak Dinner”

I want to take
my tomato to
a Supper Club
with a Big Blue
neon sign
that hums
“Cocktails“
and then hums
”Supper Club“

I want to go to
Big Al’s
Little Margie’s
or the Cotton Club
Supper Club
to order that martini
dry
that steak blood
wet
while listening to
a sequined canary
cover Rosemary
and over tip that
hat check girl on
her way to
Hollywood
or maybe back to
high school
and drive home
with the top
down
and desire up
to fumble and tumble
hot to sleep
the cold war
sleep of that
” American Dream“–
now gone the way of
the supper club
and The CCCP

I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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