JIPSUM POOL
Nayer if its winds’ doe jumps over the fencing’s opulent moonshape and lands all spry in the leaves, running off through backyards in the night, I may send a bit of my self out in this airy envelope. You may know my name by hearing it like new word for the first time. In prayers’ gists, I was supposed to climb a mountain and cup the sun with my hands. That was the first line on… well, that was the first line—
The window in your room is a painting. The canvas is a perfect square. With a horizontal crossbar and a doe midflight outside on the grass in the dark under a full moon. The eyes you look at it through are capital O’s with a period for the pupil sinking deep in the middle. The bulb in the lamp is a clementine, and its light is ripe-rind-colored. The light casts a boxed beam of orange-yellow onto the page of the notebook on your bed. It reads:
Today I am learning how to fly; I am learning how to fly today. This world is strange. This house is not my home. In due time a maze. I have wandered here for a whole night and still cannot remember if I’m awake or asleep.
The luddite march going on in the streets of the harrier’s mind is a loud brazen thing, full of shifting verticalized picket signs and fists and shouts at the top of lungs of profane politics. There are people out there who do not want this message getting heard; they are people of the mind.
Down in the freak vein, some kind of energy swerves up to the pineal gland. It yips COMMANDER to the soul. It breaks the Sheba with a wantwarm analysis of bone intuition. Here even as I set down my post-sip Cola on the back porch overlooking nightfallen snow, I can feel it: current-form windy. A gale for all winds on a night that is sacred to the visceral core because of the feeling alone. Take us downright julibous, wouldja? Julibant, jubilous, whatever the difference. I am not enough of a doctor presently to know. And I’m not high, either. Which is too bad.
Prank-kept overdosing on secrets was the ivy-leagueish-sport-coat-touting bravery ascendant clone of you walking in through the door. Wanting to know what the skinny is, and leaner, and leaning on the threshold while he knocks off his boots and salutes you casually.
It is a venom range to the drone. You don’t always really get it. But it makes sense, at least, to the ones who really know. By night eye tisks a number over on the boorish bloke up from Haverstone whose name is Ned or Nile or something, who keeps on checking his watch in the dark of the bar. I know, I know. It’s not what it always wants to seem like quite, is it? It’s not always as much of a shot to the heart as a chill to the bone. You or I can decide later. Right now the difference between these two characters, or either one and yourself, or whoever. There is not enough sequence to really know. To abhor your portals on the scene, old Neddy Nile Somethingerother loathes to be spotted out here without his contingent nearby. Knows what’s up in too frequent a way. Marks his glass with a real severe gulp or two and lets it absolutely go. Up the stairs from The Upside-Down.
Oh don’t follow on after. There’s time to get lost, yet. Same old mystery woggle. You have your boots packed with a little bit of coal, don’tcha? Just in case? How’d I know? Lersby lyle low larapin lumbering la. Can’t-affecter keeping real score with the low. Don’t put your note in yet unless you want to be shortchanged real bad, y’hear? Nobody round here wants to know, and for good reason, see? There’s a reflection in the mud. It’s all kind of sickly. Life’s on the bose.
Tab perfection hinderance hits you upside the head some, just don’t it? You and I both know who’s to go. But if I were to give you some info on the scene, sure enough I guarantee ya you’d be whipping away the fro. Calling-carding the caper keen. Then not to know. But over time I guarantee you. Something in the way would surely win out. Something in the way all those go. Soon enough everything does, sure enough, I a-guarantee ya. Soon enough everything goes.
You didn’t understand the spell because you don’t understand songs, so. I promise you there’s a reason nothing gets spelt out the same way anyway. Anymore. Something’s off with the presence I can keep if ya wanna be going on. And on and on in the same old droll. Dreary days on us oh it’s seen. There doesn’t really have to be a reason behind all the magic is what you’d wanted to say. But neither of us much liked the word; it was much too superstitious. I could tell you from your having-heard what was able. I was nithering the gleamlight from the aft a ways. I could see right through myself in the reflection all unstable. Around the corners of my own body. Behind my back—my back itself. I was able to face the most hellish antiserene moments just about imaginable with absolute calm I swear and even deal with them like they were just ice chips getting chewed up to help with the molar grind or whathaveyou. I could space and space and find my few little light gleams of salvage reprimand selfhoods. I could fish out of the never-ending night a beautiful snowball and throw it at the side of the shed and watch it explode all white everywhere so it leaves a snowy flat residue.
I could even see the doe running backyards away just flying through in one continuous perfect motion out of here at all times. It was beautiful and I was having to stop a moment. My heart was catching up to the cigarette and I was having to stop a moment. There were papers I’d read about this very day years and years before.