GOODBYE FRIEND, DRIVE
100% captor lace strung around the sides of the boat. Hizel and Hrommud getting somewhat distorted. We didn’t know. But below deck a dance was going on. And the calocetic energies were shifting toward grace-vineward. And the operator on call was inebriated as heck.
“Those foes stumble rightly.” Peniter, with his hand raised, posits the shipsment supersmog highway. Clarnitrick gibbers wisening up layfish tripped on the sonesome stoll. In ber lieu der tay nock remoe, alovaders made a hazarding motion toward the incoming rayafon trackniss and woo-loved the day. But hands teeter. And a last call was made on my machine—to the one who put the wires together and didn’t give a name, Anonymous Recipient. Of the call. In his monkey suit, bleeding the line between heaven and hell his mind on the wire walking tall. I asked him to step down a moment but he didn’t listen, and I’m glad he didn’t—he walked all the way. Into the golden globe of glass and exiter stalls and prime number 4-to-1 odds takes your best pick. Thus whenever Christopherson built himself a wall he’d immediately break it down. He was the lovechild of God and Music and made it clear what all he could do with song.
Lug us over clay portions of climbs and cull the right amount of small resplendent gates in gates in gates. Always a triple to the stack’s portion initially. And then maybe two, and then maybe none. We go from divided falls.
But you see the problem may have all along been that I wasn’t focusing on the thing the thing the thing; I was writing about nothing. So that when I slipped and hit into the pool and dove below the surface as a matter of course with gravity, don’t you—
there were things, Nodda. There were things. So Calypso knew. But I saw heavenly raiment being worn by you. And all these momentary fluid characters’ roles going exeunt stupid restless blind-winded all. There were things. And who were all of you dark, in shadow, moving at the gates inside the gates outside the gates? Who were you dark-robed tarriers and what were you doing there, at night, in shadow, saying a prayer? Were you saying a prayer out there with your lonesome pack, roving the grounds? Were you blessed in staid amounts the whole love of the universe? Where? Did you come up to the edge of the basin to sing? I was purported to jimmy-rock the not-so. I was not supposed to leave the gates open, but I did, and then from the window I saw you and your… retinue, whatever. Roving the grounds. Praying—were you praying? Saying a prayer? For me?
Come as you are wisening up to Nodda the sound of Christopherson’s song. It was played on guitar and fro-heaped. Over the ludgy ears taking in the music, listening rightly. The character of the man’s mind was exposed. In words you could not pretend to understand but knew were themselves the functions of what to say. You’ve wasted a lot of money, son.
But don’t you learn, some, re-comma? Can’t you restate your pride? There is a hedgeworth of sleep to be had now that you don’t know, but I am sure. You will in turn sleep a long time. If you want to. Otherwise, still dream. In heavy commas. In the light beray trip to seen jersplat versnay blue bludgeoned pain on all sides, withered fauna. The forest itself fading out to a radiator’s hum. Becoming small being zoomed-out on. Becoming resparred in fiedt. Not a lot of money to bring me back again. I Am zooming out of my own sight leering in on the train’s spilt hue. Redried in blankets sweet my whole cotenga fishing out the speck of gold from my cup o joe and calling it karma. What do you think they do? Is responsible? Is the code? As they come into the way and spread their wings, do you know? What they mean? It is a lightshow. In the end you watch as the seas rebreak. I watch it, too. It depicts birds flying much like the wings do, and then some—and then some whole lot of sped-up shining on. The witherawaysome instigator hiring himself a bodyguard whose purpose is to fly elope heavenly a bunch of wartherners. The project’s point was to see how many different stories could be interpreted from the same sentence, and which alleyway alcoves they’d be shunted down. A prima donna might in his own way interpret the nonsense as a kind of attack—on the senses, on the basis: of the mind; on the day the respite denies itself the shade of gray it needs to fight the war on greediness for pales malt blunder the lung hip and swanky smoking a cigarette. Clasping at his own chest the author of the nonsense then wondering about the meaning of pain on the inside and what occurences might.
But did not question the intelligence of the creator. New full well he could not know even a modicum of what was going on in the larger world. Moved his hands up through the air and imagined ducks on lakes. Floating. Reskying the floor of motion dithering intergrate. Pops in a VHS tape of The Sholom Fires and watches as the scene takes hold his sight his hearing his everything warped down to the perimeter of the cathode-ray tubes. Glistening colors of faces and backgrounds and hairstyles and clothes and grace. The difference in the way light detracts itself from the face on the screen to the eyes’ respondent inucalatorish gaze diaspora caught. From the frozen homes of the hall all between pertained to the way you’d eat peanut butter with a spoon and sit in bed and write these things. To wonder what all has gone through your head when it is said to be done and there is no space left to write any words on the page. Nothing to be proud of. What do you think?