The Hamburger

Condiments slipping, sliding from a sesame seed bun, flowing down a white shirt like a tidal wave, staining pants with yellow and red.
Brion Gysin was eating a hamburger in a manner no mortal man had eaten a sandwich of any kind, and the consumption of said hamburger was an experience I had the pleasure of witnessing in its entirety.
Like an Aztec war bib, that shirt became, a river of color.
It was no less than religious epiphany, a communion that I daresay has not been repeated since, not even by Jack Kerouac and his legendary overstuffed Chicago-style frankfurters.