Michael Malone - Weebly

emarks by the Lake Poets. Beanie Abernathy bit
through the toothpick in her chicken club.
When Rage finished his brief but vibrant "Stare Up
the Asshole of Art," he tossed all the half-eaten
sandwiches and fruit cups forgotten by the ladies in their
attentiveness into his green canvas bag and flung it over
his broad tweed shoulder. "Nobody ever finishes their
food! The freedom to waste, that is definitely one of the
glories of America!"
"Are you a Socialist then?" asked Mrs. Canopy, her
eyes behind the round glasses as bright as flags. She
was ready to bear it if he were.
"Oh, hell, no. I'm a monarchist. Love the House of
Hanover and especially the hemophiliacs."
"No, please," said Beanie Abernathy, slipping her
long feet back into her low-heeled shoes. She had just
been told by Tracy Canopy to escort Mr. Rage on a
tour of the town until it was time for him to meet Kate
Ransom at the Dingley Club. Tracy herself had to take
to the Argyle bus station, seven miles away, a visiting
Lebanese music student who had seen America for
ninety-nine days and was now going home. Tracy