scanning the floor for leftover appendages.
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| Spooky Stole My Noodle scanning the floor for leftover appendages. |
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Wednesday, February 04, 2004 Halaka Scores a Bonecrunching Victory in the Michigan Demopublican Primary Henry, Danny, and the Astonishing Bun Juggler Brigade:The weather is slightly different, today. Do you carton that? It's just a slight elevation, the way a slightly puffy pastry is just slightly better than a flat one. Better, I mean, it's slightly better. There's some tint in the sunlight, through the blinds in the dentist's office or the blanket, hung like a curtain with thumbtacks over the big glass doors, here. Outside the air has a texture like light feedback over orange static. Melting chinese women are sampled for later and re-applied in generous banners stretching across the stairwell. It remembers me as to what sometimes was what was enjoyable about some times. For me, I mean, not to be pre-emptively striking so as to negate your own possible feelings to the contrarian. (Shelves and stacks love my toys.) That windless cold-enough air has leant me a hot pepper: I think we need a rebirded halkaa lahaak haalka ahakal, with our fluttery selves. "Honey, you don't have any pants, we don't let you wear any pants. How many times do I have to tell you?" That whole rat is speaking through his little, tiny pecker. "He put it in his mouth." It's a proofed fakch that we are physiologically incapable of formulating a working set of instructions that might lead us to some sort of arrangement for having a session wherein we do anything with the musty old stack of bread, cheese, PVC tubes and cassette tapes that is hal's sacka. I'm not inviting that we should do such a thing as that, as such; we are, after all, a fluid in a meat tube, always ready to wash off the motors  What this is, however, is a clap of the erasers out on the roof of the school. If 87% of what I mean when I say I want to do a pile is that I always miss what's already happened, this is about the other 12 or so percent. Perhaps what's next down the road is thing. I don't know, but. If we're just waiting until the thaws come out and poo, sometime when it's summer of 2017, then that's what we're waiting for. However, just so it's expressed, I am grandly ready, having smelt this collection of presence that is the way things are just now, outside and around and in here, to get everyone together and do whatever it is we do sometimes, whenever it is that we actually do it. The rods in my flesh are startlingly clear in their insistence that nothing's even vaguely familiar around here, and that's as it should be, at least when the weather's not subjugating me, unbeknownst, beneath its sickening, invisible weight. My finger sucked through the small hole, shot out somewhere on the other side, and maybe I see it over there, under that tree. Which might turn out to be a plant after all. This is an invitation to discussion. -- D. M. Gumstretcher April 12, 1943 from a wheelchair on the Serengetti posted by Kingo Sleemer | 10:05 PM |
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