Spooky Stole My Noodle
scanning the floor for leftover appendages.


Thursday, July 10, 2003  

Yea, Though He's Out Beyond the Ramparts



We still see you, Spooky, waving my noodle in your little, wooden hand. I hope you find a bountiful flood of artificial bivalves out there, in your fields and shingle-shoppes.

It's tough, though, with you flapping around up there in the wind. The words here come slow and sticky, and some of them don't even make it past the nozzle. When I clean it out, only once in a while, it's depressing to see the dried-up, crusty remains of things I thought we'd said. Like last night I found a "paper tastes like a solid, harsh slap on the thigh," right next to a, "spent the evening chilling
rusty cars in the oversized refrigerator mom bought me." I quietly mourned the loss of these sentiments as I shook them off the spatula (sometimes having to beat it pretty firmly against the rim) and then flushed them down the toilet.

It's clean for now. Hopefully all of the thoughts in our melty heads will float through loud and muzzy now. For a while, anyway.

While you're out there, Spooky, would you grab a box of straws? Mine got all chewed up.

posted by Kingo Sleemer | 4:38 PM
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