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the beginning of this letter is HUSHED like a dusty auditorium before the folds of a red curtain are smoothed and lifted from the weary surface of the stage. BEGIN! i rescued that man from large mounds of formal attire to hear him say this, with the frustrated animation that comes with brushing crumbled buildings from one's lapels. it was at the drive-thru theatre and a great prairie wind blew dust into the projector. the image turned grainy and tired and strings of wonderful green light hovered above our heads. we watched the clouds cover the lit chapel miles and miles away over the flat lands and lawn chairs folded shut, pinching children and reminding everyone of the bits of their brain attached by strings and wires that aren't labeled "goodness." THE DANGERS OF KEEPING A LIVING TIGER IN YOUR HOME: 1. he will eat the furniture and the children a cricket lives in my hair. i think there's a ghost in here. life is lumpy and vibrant and largely unlivable except with the insertion of several hours of unconsciousness garbed in cotton sheets. this man looked at my m&m's and told me i will grow healthy, eating the breakfast of champions, then he laughed at himself and slumped back into the convenience store stench of mediocrity. so i felt like i was either eating tiny powerbars programmed to make me jump meadows and wear athletic pants, or chocolate-encased untruths designed to make a person feel humorous and less tied to a paycheck and little dream-bubbles of his hayday hovering over his head while he handed out packs of cigarettes and lottery tickets. numbers on paychecks mean progression to that place where you can’t bail yourself out at the last minute. places on hills with giant staircases and paintings behind the stoves. that's known as advancement. you know. cash out consolidate debt rates are still low: please be patient, this may take several seconds. --> every day the tv-box turns generations of children into BRAND NEW stereotypes-->the teevee is an INCUBATOR for new breeds of conversation that keep us entertained the ensuing laughter of the entourage assures us that the lesson was well taken. let us pick the finest crop from the bottoms of the sandy oceans, they say, with a cigar clenched between their teeth. they scoop you up in a big net. it is wet and cold and you are a rat. a RAT! we ate the sea and now you must take off your greek fisherman hat and put on this career woman suit for work in this cubicle. and you have popsicle all over your face. and sit up straight. stop whining. no, i don't think that meteor’ll hit me. i'd want to put flowers and frozen boxes of fishticks on your grave, and then maybe i'd dig you up when nobody's watching and use you as a coat rack. large shapes on the walls, large shapes at the dinner table, large shapes saying their prayers or unclotting the scabs in their mouths to speak. i imagine everyone's life as bible stories on yellow felt boards. there is a long line protruding awkwardly from some flaking white building downtown. and then BANG the wind starts blowing and clouds billow up above us and the only movement in this line is rustling hair and clothing, in such a manner that suggests these people the hair and clothing belong to are plastic effigies used in cardeeo-pull-moe-nary resuss-ih-tay-shun classes hanging inanimately on their display poles after hours, when the janitors whistle the mildewy sea shanties of sailors rotting over loch lomond's bonnie lasses to the meter of their allegiant mops mopping. the children drifted down the cave halls in single-file lines wearing white diaphanous sheets and then this giant HUMMING BIRD, garbed in aviator hat and carrying a zero halliburton wide-body triple-gusset leather dowel expandable attaché case, dips down from the air-current and steadily plims tighter and rounder with the imbibed fluids from the heads of every single member of this line, which collectively remains static in a sort of benign continuum; the space right before the sneeze or the gunshot or some great explosion of sorts. then i guess it leaves. we are a low fat ice cream we are sweetly frozen air crawl along the baseboards, under windows, that is how to keep safe. a bodiless voice from the building calls out a name, i think it was "gershwin jinkins", and somehow the line moves forward without the movement of feet, and we all know we will never see gershwin jinkins again but don't do anything. dogs circling their beds in preparation to lie down but never do walking around with that feeling that you are about to sneeze but never do waiting to explode in a puff of smoke and cheap special effects sparks (but never do) find some fishing wire and capture the sea monster that makes dim shadows in this plush water during the evening when it came time for desert, people in white lab coats issued from the kitchen pushing desert dollies ladled with rubber masks that fit over our faces with tubes connecting them to giant tanks of anesthetic.
by The JavaScript Source
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