3/27/1998 g.g.Ashbrook
Several delorious opal characatures lay in the grass by the side of old fountain come down by dinner stars opposite sun, opposite moon, opposite all our little dinner sitters, topped with a slight of banister slide, popped by the back hand champagne of chapper pimple puppers like gose gob’n totally mascusized german beauties, father takes them out when he lead sprays ducks and, coats like silver and eyes like the homonym name sack. That was the first thing. New candle sticks did anyone notice? No, and never do, never do, The shouting in the kitchen and ‘r’ you ready for that one, they’d like to know. Scrape of your boots, bring in the skunk, bring in the NL, bring in the moose off the hood of the old Volks that red painted coat sputters and putts with the ‘s’ over two ‘t’s and a hat over your glassy eye and I with a suit case of pure miss Terry Toes Crackers, an all organlick brain’d don’t you know, they’d like to know. With one person sitting by the phone waiting for an answer in antiphon. And she looks at his eye’s with her elbows spite, miscrossed your flavor, canned eye licks, legs, toosh, lips, eye brown curls, Banertapias CopaCobanis, with three scoups of vanilla over the yellow lenth of three unpeeled to perfection brought. That girl, my unwrapped Taoist ladder. Coke spooled for a leather ghymnist; crack, "welcome to my humbled abode." Crack, "split your trains grin…" crack, "Soda for two, soda for two," and hair cannaires sting duets killing cicadas in mad uncouth mating practices. Wand leather rip tide sing so cold you capped tapered coper coatspring mis that mess and misses toter chug pompom fritzmellow whooom. All the glasses raised in the next of kin. All the dials spun turned to sin; where a math salesman gets up and runs to the main dial with his scrabble cirtified dictionary held aloof and twitches the swatch to "sine." Everyone sets their wrist worn time pieces. "On your mark," the wave begins to build and, cock, knock back your shot, and then quiet conversations peel off the glasses hitting the table. Who taists lemon, honey? Ha! I made that one, Pipre calls out dropping ash in his somesexed-friend’s by matchstick candleplace with the now "her," legs up on the table. Someone stands up and knocks one the leg out from under the table, and everyone including her dun notice. The clock on the ceiling begins to spring that open time, where the legs cross and spread leaving like numb nub lips a crack-a-peep open; dark, darker. Bells start to fall out, and ribon, a pair of sissors and that roll of tape sumgled into Bulgaria by the high roller what was impersinating a high official and gave birth to the chief of police who arrested her on the spot. The tape falls to its side and its story hushes into, some say, the salt shaker. Other’s say, the bowl of sugar. Or the sound and into the table and into the floor and grounded into the center of the earth eventually, says a quiet old man by the fire. Spoon lips curl at the edges of the tablecloth, and pull from Sanzoo fire to Tiamot, the small tentative winds ever blowing. He takes the spoon out of his cup now empty and spins in and plays with it in his hand. A girl over the other side of the room has an orange stripe on her sweater, and she pulls a fish bone out of her mouth and makes a weird face and rips a little piece off her napkin and wraps it up and puts it quietly under on of the edges of her plait. And quietly, she burps.
The weather outside the window in too dark to sea, to a wine dark blue, with spatches of stretch spackling that start streaking and streaming inch by inch, like the tablecloth, to a warm color. Someone hits the switch, and the roof opens up beginning with the space between the clock legs. The sky is clear, and waves gently, but being the thin vale that it is it quickly breaks away and falls out into the; howling, minded; this ship is off, the bottle broke, the ribbon clipped, a new pair of shoes.