Tuesday, January 5, 2010


High inspiration—secondary to being efficient and hardy and overall good for the length and breadth of being good to all and everyone who just ho-hum happens to be swinging on by or sleeping on the floor—is much and maximally great for the keeping of all lights on, no matter what happens—here, there, and overboard, so as not to seem wasted (this problem of energy and jumproping cables and dung beetles rolling away, in a straight line, despite all obstacles, with a heavy— i.e., roughly 50 times their body weight—load) is brought to the forefront of thought allatonce (now) as like, you know, it is while it is happening (of course…everyone knows that, right?) the best of what is left in the curdling of mercy and pity and brave forward thinking men and women all over this god(damn)land—yes. So, we have intestines. We have blisters and bleeding ulcers (famotidine is a histamine H2-receptor antagonist that inhibits stomach acid production, and is commonly sold under the trade name of Pepcid, which many lonely souls use to treat their stomach woes) and fallingouthair and grapes and (first of all) (lastly) violin solos. Campy razzmatazz is (going) on its way out. Still, you must admit, the microphone picks up strange things: flecks of spitty sprayings (like catnip for the delicate ear) and gurglings and mispronounced words and breathy sighs and clearings of the throat and songs and jokes and the movements of fingers. Lower than mischievous illusions—like dimmed bright lights (sometimes causing tears) in a stark room—tabs were being kept on hotdogbun purchases and (while diamondmining statistics were being gathered) breath was being bated and held. Clipping the clop off the top of a way to walk (while whaling the whole while without one wail) a trot was born bored with (or without) horns so as to ward off all want and give up a lot. Lowly aspirations—namely the wholeshootingmatch type—need to always go without saying (like the lesser of more than two selfish inhibitions lying in wait like a torch, like a hyena in heat, like a robot without arms) otherwise they’d go giving away the whole kitandcaboodle, and nobody does want that (except that high priest of outlandishness who waits in the corner of the room at a silent auction and simpers.) Whistles that don’t get their way become jealous as time goes on and haunt the halls of conceit with hardnosed resilience and the highest pitch that their music can make, or unmake. Enervation comes and goes like a garden hose. Blimps hover. There is nothing unexceptional about silver dollars, except that they are heavier than most dollars, which is not too mundane to be unexciting except in the most exceptional of circles, circles being things a wet wine glass might make on a tablecloth if turned upsidedown. The difference twixt differential equations (when it comes down to Hank and Lefty’s opining) is not really that important to the actually solving of both (or even one, if you really want to know about it) of the equations if you put in the effort and time (like you used to do) before the derivatives of dinner get around to being served. Missiles have all the staying power of presidents. Histories of whirling dust mites hang like flowers in the brushstrokes of the present (we’ve moved on to bungalows) tense. Damn all spellcheckers. To hell with paragraphs. Send all punctuation to Siberia. (The moods of never have their own spells to cast on spiders) We—wishing to remain anonymous at all costs—have here (and by this do declare our anonymity) gathered together (while galloping) all that is remaining of any and all integers ever divided or multiplied or stacked independently (with their hearts bleeding of course) on top of one another or in any way (shape or form is to be assumed) (of course) with or without each other or alone or just left by the side of the road to be (was hoped) forgotten about for the duration of this here so-called eternity. The numbers just won’t add up. Listen to the background noises (silently) for a while.