I'm Sure Their Names Mean Something

Big mouth plaster casts and migraine tortillas all along the cloudy river, up the mountain, down the tooth caressing her own little tea pot poodle bought in a backyard drainage facility only to be chopped up and served as stew. When she came down I instantly questioned her morals and ideals and all she ever leaked was awkward answers anguished and languished, forgotten by car accident memories and concussion games, flagpole infested and Pulitzer pressded, with a tiny pinch of bitters. Oh those bitters always find their way into doldrumming oil industry parking lots, all screen doors and questionable camera queues just waiting for that one cat to show his face – eyes primarily, but he’s particularly afraid of spitting cobras, and never got over Steve Irwin’s death. Explaining to him why the cameras were x-ray was like explaining algebra to a wall, because algebra is invisible, and the cat is the size of a small country. I hear it’s because he got tired of waiting in line for food, so he ate the entire McDonald’s. Bodies cant digest that stuff, with the lawn mower cap gasket blue and twilighted all bricked up just smiling too large for television, too large for the moon, which has grown legs in its old age but never can find the time to use them, sits in its recliner all day, which was a gift from carpenter Jesus, while taking dance lessons from posthumous Michael Jackson. Da Vinci’s the most promising student, if you base it on flattery, of course, but what would I know? The last article I read was about bob Dylan playing electronica music. I also heard that DJ Tiesto is America’s most promising folk artist. Folk died in 19-something, it was hit over the head with a giant tin pan in an alley. Talk about a successful factory. When captain Picard gets involved you know it’s serious, because Mr. Kennedy over there can’t keep a straight face, which is what’s making me laugh drool on my dogs dirty paw all smack marooned and whiskey bombed with a lack of music - sound in general, really. Aw that damn ragman with his circles and block, don’t talk tape furnished heart escape too late. Getting flak for that one crack made by earthquake, nameless, fameless, aimed out of misery eyelids livid and knocked out cigarette bird talking eating baguette, Frenchmen wife marionette. tickets licked it bought a bic and kicked it to where that manifest destiny died in its tracks on the trail lost in itself from those narcissistic conversations with itself, to pointing paintings and beating itself all over again and again and again and again surrounding itself with friends, finding itself with its friends in its crack dens and deceased kin watch it, kicking itself for wasted years, like that cat with the poorly located injury, who loved the girl, but she got away from Hemmingway. Minor blues injuries. Those damned inquiries where all you say to me and he to she and her to whoever’s cosmically next in line discriminatory coat technician laboratories. Whatever. Why would I care, I’m just an observer of all for all after all can’t quite all go to ball small little birdcages in instant mix for Kool-Aid addictions. This cat, he walks in sits down smokes in his room a light cigarette and puts it out a quarter too early, and appears a quarter past 3, a quarter short for a ticket, a quarter hour late, drops a quarter dollar, and realizes that this is all because he left the other three quarters in this old bombshell ceiling, half worn down by nature and fully drawn to be disguised, and this is why he has no whole. I says, hey you, why no whole? He say, hey you, don’t instigate, im a loose cannon, and once fed a shark with a bowl of raisin bran. I was then made aware of his amazing strength and will and wondered what whole cat would be like. So I says, where’s the rest of ya? He say, I said I left it. I told you this already, I left it in my bombshell ceiling and now have to travel all the way back to it to become whole, yet for some reason, every time I try to do that, I end up side tracked and paralleled, and helicopters follow me home every night I’s scared I’s scared. I offered liquid liver with brain contoured whisker diver dressing and a fresh Chinese suit from the future and he denied these things, he just loved that one quarter of himself, hated half of the whole and wondered when he could finally get his three quarters back. I then found out that this bombshell ceiling was no ceiling at all…or a bombshell, but actually a woman who’d been divorced for a couple years, and she had this cellar door, made out of a skull and spirits and souls, and an eighth was missing. Don’t worry about 7, 9, and 10. They’re safe and all right. All fight and fright continuing to brighten all sorts of days including mammogram phonographs printed by Satan, which of course would be rock and roll and while all these kids, conversed and mind constricted whitherspoon contortions and shortened motives in constant driftwood antics, concerned by the slightest sounds, weary by the movement of tectonic plates and natures mentality to move forward, forward, forward, echo. So he walks in sits down reads a mag article, looks up peers down the hallways, showdowed closely by pencil shavings, that damned snoop. Pistol brave and calling I do end up getting a response.