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paste!
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"you are such a parsley-eating labrador," said one mailman to the other. "well, my friend, you make disgusting noises when you set sail for the netherlands."
and they got along fine, the two chums.
one mailman took his butter-fueled tank to the racetrack while the other bought his son, bastk, the ancient ice-cream sandwich. bastk was in need of an old snack, an old relic of flavor in a time of very little taste. he would be a player in this story, if the writer didn't feel a sudden sense of jaguar breaking through the wall of my domiciliatory hovelshack, a jaguar with rippling hindquarters and black vision. she spotted me long ago, about 11:30, arriving in my nefarious alley, home from work, parking my toboggan in the space marked "paste!". now i grapple this jaguar, tossing, gouging, painting, pleading, sanitizing, scrambling, defusing, impersonating. that's where i get her. i act like her, mimic her movement, my skin becomes black sleek jaguar. i am a jaguar.
we go to the racetrack to congratulate the two mailmen on their recent award-winning ribcage portrayals of flash photographed caves. there's no comparison between the kentucky derby and blades of rice, victory...kimono. since the great days of lift 50000 chairs, the value of listerine, for you and yours, has less than doubled. this can give you massive overdoses of pleasure if you apply it correctly. for instance, this wild mislocated porcelain candy bar has no tether, so bago bago all the way to your favorite shed.
sometimes, i just can't pencil in what needs to be. i have this fear of revealing my simplicity, of aging, of becoming so much less than the energy of my previous guise, losing my authority to hurdle fact or relevance, to take steam when steam is needed. i can't tackle the big challenge of big blue anymore, without transforming into something more reasonable, more streamlined, more negligible. lopo, what do you think? shitz? what happened to you gutsy frogs?
it's weird to feel these wrinkles appear and characters disable by circumstance. there's no way to get the raft flipped back over. it's like a glass of water turning into bacon, the shit is giggling all the way home. so i'm gonna slip ahead into dogfight memories, old war stories that never happened. the mad old victor in dreamtime, the elderly paste!
(i guess nothing changes at all, i.e. fresh azurite tacos, no reason to be here, mad semblances, remotely tuck/patient revision, unphrasables becoming disphrased micro-audible barks of the little champagne mice in my noggin.)
you can't say chaos! anymore and mean it,
but i mean it. it's a fine place to try and organize. gorgonzola. my work time is one of the sick fruit flies stuck in a ceiling fan pummeled by papayas (we had so many! ceiling fan were designed to have objects (duck!) thrown into them). my vacation time is a turkey vulture soaring high above the salt river looking down on the big wildflower circus. i will never die. the miracle of jello will apply to me, somehow.
and then i will crash.
and then i will repair.
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