Sunday August 27 12:00AM

Des objects d'art. The three jars of pens and pencils, my grandfather's pipe (Ceçi n'est pas une pipe? When I write out "pipe" the question becomes an affirmative statement: this is not a pipe.), my red notebook, the jim dine painting above me, the tibetan prayer flags draped across that, my Da Vinci calendar, my record player to my right, films, records, books. Noise and clutter, silence and order. I throw it all down and commence true tumult.
****
Waiter walks out of the kitchen carrying a tray crammed with clutter of plates slathered with foods: roast chickens stuffed with fennel and garlic, generous sides of rosemary-roasted potatoes, quiche lorraine, cordon bleu lemon salmon, lamb shanks, veal with blackberry sauce, chicken wellington, stuffed flounder, spears of baguettes bristling from baskets hanging from his arms and neck, steam rising from bowls of mushroom and sherry soup, tomato florentine soup, lobster bisque, delicate trays of cheeses--stiltons, gruyere, livarot, and roncal; bottles of port, chardonnay, beaujolais, sherry; chilled desserts: creme brules, chocolate raspberry brioche, eclairs, white chocolate mint torte. Walking by, gets goosed on the ass by a fat, 82-year old widow heiress wearing a scandalously low cut blue dress and a Philip Treacy hat, but the waiter maintains his composure and his balance.
But then, Sauvage, the pet monkey Madame Derange purchased while on vacation in Botswana (also the restaurant's good luck charm and mascot) swings in on a chandalier and punches the poor bastard in the nuts. An involuntary electric jolt to his muscles and the waiter helplessly hurls the tremendous tray of gourmet foods like an discus. The tray hits the ceiling of the restaurant with a thunderous crash, raining down its menu on the startled patrons. The sight of mangled remnants of poached squid soup drippling down from her husband's toupee, makes poor Dame Magen make a dash for the ladies' room, but in her rush, she manages to topple over the lit candelabra which quickly sets fire to the tablecloth.

But then Tony Danza comes in and puts out the fire. Then Joseph Stalin enters stage left in drag and sings "Love for Sale."
****
ummm...don't know what that was all about.
****
Getting out those names and numbers, shoving out those thoughts, throwing fire around//then//swallow it down, curl the wet tongue around the flame.
Rivers, rivers of thought, Nile, Seine, Danube, St. Lawrence, Volga, Rhine, Indus, Tigris, pouring down the systems, drifting about the Ganges, sinking, always sinking.
Underwater, the saxophone sounds a flurry of bubbles, clicks of the valves.
Thoughts a blurred mess, a compilation of refuse.
Shuttling into the key, rattling the keys, walking down the Quay, sitting on the end of the dock in the sunshine.

I cannot produce you.
I refuse to continue in this state of mind:

Distraction and Ambivalence are my twin patron goddesses tonight. I light incense in their temples.