Then he's got his god-red little footsies hanging off the dock smelling out the little fishies staring at the moon. Stone-black caught in silhouette, go go go amber glint, we are swimming 'round a bottle, laughing TV commercial Faulkner doom, pass the pass the back 'n' forth ass, the peach-girl throat caught in sudden beauty-- ok, laugh the random fractal beauty of it all: there it is, the sweet liquor moon, same one 200-odd nights a year, 4 billion years running. Crystalline, her sweet pie lips in big O, falls off the dock and disturbs the great white swath into a zillion tiny ripples and I laugh a strong liquor gurgle into the dying throat of the world. Crystaline floats away on her back and the moon shadow goes still again-- then Louie waves his "god my damn feet hurt" tootsies in the water, playing a little game with the blue fuckin' moon.