JAZZ RELIEF

Time-tanned were trickly oven bites coruscating up on the main deck. Yonder veins where detailed moons passed by all gargantuan and superimposed on the sky, little-granted nynaemertanuen fishing out their souls from the bottomless pupil of God’s eye. Tillen trekked on sambyu oun. The fiction was the ego of the spry. Unable for the time to come up with a focused thing. The chaos had become the message as it were, thenius thinning thoughts thought, realizing a little there were far more unmade words than there were words. Qualitative in simple, blank readied bold clams could at last watch from their sand banks the sun—their favorite celestial body—rise on the day the oceans sunk lower for a draught. I in my fisherman’s cap even stopped by to take a gander. From the surf leaving the shore for the sandbar, I heard “Low nooz troo fu lei.” It comforted my heart. ¶ On then into other means, where compassion met the as yet unrealized, onion people stealing my money come back to apologize. They say, “I’m sorry” in a not-in-a-lick,-really,-sinister way. They bow their heads, and the lead one offers up some coins and a dollar bill on his upraised white-gloved palm. You’d better be, but I’m smoking my cigarette. Then there is no time for this. Toon melt-yous rescind the offer to my table. I call up the lobby. Ask what building I am in. It is The Car Lot. Figures. Toon melt-yous walking hips-asway down the hall from my door to knock on Vinny the Esper’s, unafraid or else unaware of his ability to melt their minds. I remember back to the onion people and feel sorry all a sudden. I shut the door. Where was the sense that I’d asked if it would come? ¶ Portrait on the wall of indermentory hyperfluous aspartame ghillie sitting down with a bottle of rum and crying while looking into the viewer’s focal registry registers. I wonder what is going on with me. Suddenly my chest bumps and the elevator-ding pitches down the hall and I know the end of the sentence has come. ¶ What in the world would put you here in the land beyond conveyors where all our fleeces are made of gold? Why did you think recalling dreams would ever give you any answers? It is a cold, unfeeling world. At times, yes, but also… what in the world would put you here in the land beyond conveyors? Inching-out thumb-worm in Pleiades dispatch co-queues later the sognit fogron. Tells of peace beyond middled worlds and how nonsense little imp-seats get filled with druthers for writers and it is nice at times. Though blanked beyond the point of one I could seem fishingly to lean in over the railing and ray or skate my hand this way that signified going with the flow altogether. Handed-down many fortunes in a single cookie cracked, oh, open, and message read: “You will have success in all your personal affairs.” Well yippee, Scott. Wutherer jingling its change walking down the street unaware there is a band of onion people in the alley immediately ahead having heard the coins in his pocket, leering back and forth at each other in the dark, one of them patting a baseball bat. ¶ Clean-sea-clean-on-conveyors slipped out of the mind’s packaging and fell as a parcel out on the floor. Lock-in-with-the-eyesing toon melt-yous recurring in dreams but not this one seem to speak another language but do not know what they really mean. Big orgasmigoid eyelets aflutter slinking ripped tunes out of an accordion as they lean over the table obligingly to whisper nonsense into your ear: “Eih? Du fer nu? Neih, luh dur ber.” Cross-contaminating the priz-off with Agent Exit’s pristine mallofactor embion pen, which glows in the dark and spins and whistles if you want it to, on top of providing premium ballpoint gel glide. Ruby rondy-to-know walking past the oblique pellucid window where her outline distorts before the outside shine and shatters against the passing of its darkness because as it turns out, when the door just beside is opened, nobody is there—and she was never a character. Little eyelet droggle high-nighting flute-playing alligators on the side tables doing jazz numbers with their nubby clawed digits wait while you take your seat. And I take my seat as well. And in that time nothing for real happens except—yes, you guessed it: we take our seats. Well, that and the buzzing housefly our waiter’s turned into loses his mind and flies into a bulb in one of the fixtures above the tables. Constant lay-tremier in the cometous andromathy threatening to lack-slay the beneficent ox we parrot to, whose name is never known but whose love is felt. Kind old ox, that one. So but where? Where is our tune going? What is our hell like? Why is it here? On earth, are there any more reasons? I want to know. And to take you, ice-lake-blues-having Pegasus, to the rooftop, where we can see the stars behind light pollution and you can decide if you’d maybe like to fly off into them. With me or not, it’s not my business. Punitive rolling-sparks to alight in the glad made bed heaving rollersway but were not tone. Crassly designed shoes only the elves sport showing off the primary-color-centric insignia of RED, YELLOW, & BLUE. With little holographic Hermetic wings on the sides which seem to flutter slightly as the perspective from which they are seen shifts in the light. Too-nothing noculators brooding over a glass of something about the portrait of the aspartame ghillie in my room in The Car Lot. They, having busted right in, feel sad too, but especially about the portrait. They want a third person to share their sadness with and, from the corner of the room’s striated changing screen you’re hiding behind, as the whole place is as quiet as the dust that’s inside, and their gazes are all but barely visible, they look (at the same instant)—directly at you.