Gosh
to all darns. I’m up for giving-- consequentially, that is. But these circles
are not concentric. Not by a longer shot than a Harlem moon. Bo rigged it.
Turned up the AC on us. The thicker-skinned among us had been mewling on about
it. Insults were hurled to no effect, motley and crude. “Wave! Wave!” That was
the taunt we were all touting. It did some bad. It did little good. A few
parallel troopers handcuffed Bo to the microwave. He raved and almost ranted
too. It was a squeaker. The lord was lifted up and then set back down in a
China cabinet. Faking it. Faking it. More of that lunkheaded jacaranda-staring
one-foot-to-the-other sway. “Get back up!” A scream to match the facts. It all
got solved with a pool-ball slick answer. A slightly stirred shot of porcupine
sweat went down hard and cruel. I opened my fist and swore off punching for
good.
A
compass swung out its leg in an attempt at circumscription. The doctor of pi
played havoc-- especially with the now sweat-drenched Bo. You’d get out too,
while you could. Trust me. The doctor had his own number. Bo mumbled and
maundered. “Tighter lips,” I told him. “Keep it to somebody else.”
“Trumble!”
That wasn’t a word. Somebody had yelled it. Perhaps nobody noticed.
The
price of nickels kept getting higher. A slot grew thin in the porkpie hat
vending machine so as one couldn’t slip even their dreams through. Operations
put the heart of things to mum. I talked and talked as a crane lifted a silver
box up high towards treacherous roofs. I told the crane operator, “Your
circumstances are boring.”
We
are thatched. We are curved through eternities of arc looking for corners. It’s
been 11 hours and here we find ourselves in the same situation, meddling with
the same logic, pressing PAUSE and REWIND at the same time. “Send all the
spellcheckers to hell,” orders Bo. But being chained gives him a few measly
ounces of authority. We’d do well to find a middle here, ellipse-wise. No
coincidences left in the foci’s tank, you see, and we’re all getting a bit too
eccentric for our own conic sections. I might send out a chord soon, just to
see if it’s worth it to dream for a secant, or to maybe, in the long run, create
a sector just for me. Proportions can go to hell, if only just for a moment, as
far as I’m concerned.
“Grave
digger!” That’s Bo rattling his cuffs. “You might make tangents elope, but
you’ll never, never find a circumcircle to match the polygons of my
imagination.” I ignore him along with everybody else. He falls asleep,
constantly irrational as always.
Always
just a little bit to say, in the glide, in the swig, in the hereafter lug of
it. Behemoth tracings of the inner limits slip like graceful runnels between
the colewort sweep and ribcage-envy of us. I spend time in the shade of grander
notions than the sagitta-bound ones most of us dabble in, or at least I’d like
others to think so. Perhaps it is just a Cassini oval to dwell content with,
and even Bo knows we’re doubters first and applauders later. Oh gosh to the
darnedest, when the company we keep starts to keep us it’s better to scrape
sharply at the surface without questioning the mechanics of the innards. I’ll
buy my own excavating tools from here on out, or in. You can’t break glass with
a piece of paper. It’s a tricky stunt, and if it’s pulled off once then it’s
gone for good.
The
fall is cheap this time around. I don’t remember what it’s like to go around.
Or if I’m not in a hurry. Or if I’m rushed to the pound of drums. Or, well,
this darn gets me gushing all the time, by gosh. Bo knows. We hound the
operations that’ll make us tall. We shed lead like hopeful pencils. Born to be
newer than this gosh, this darn, this waiting that’s to everybody else’s avail.
Too many strategies for being nifty go unclaimed. I try the slick new
measurements on. I swallow a tiny key that would’ve now saved somebody if it
could. Not this now though. It’s some other now that sleeps beyond memory.
Plus-- or minus-- I cannot go around undoing every short or long division
that’s been done for us, to us, or against us. Shoot. It does less than oodles
of good, and less than that too. A slit carved into a tangent of wind, we are
only strange enough to be traced alive, blurred in the outlines of an unknown
radius-- like this, like that, and, gosh darn, like everything else too.
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