(Imagined as Wog's way to try to entertain the object of his (ultimately failed) wooing, a series of letters to be received well (Brenda eventually says "you are a great writer, but unfortunately, that is the only good thing about you")
•••
This
is nice: an icicle bicycle. (just as)
Lice love lumps of hairy. Sweet as melted popsicle, our kidvoice Kevin and
kidvoice Kim kill time in a hatshop, where the hats are all magic, and produce
characters when you turn them up over empty air. These special hats, as is well
known, these must be stored carefully, as the characters must be watched, and
watched by the watchful eyes of children’s only- one little girl will prevent
what happened last Sunday. Last Sunday was Easter.
You
can ride an icicle bicycle one time, maybe, unless you ride it in winter. But
this isn’t winter. And the wheels. And the spokes. Tinkle part. Tinky a part. Tinker.
The icicle tinker was a lady’s first name. Sasquatch rubberized the special
yellow snow for wheels. Sasquatch was a rubbery form of hatred, he wasn’t even
a he, or a she, exactly- Sasquatch was of an unborn mutt-hood. But handy-
handiness was Sasquatch’s use. The icicle bicycle was just one example, and the
way it tinkled lovely was just one purpose, and its flowers of gaping snow-lace
were doubled use- they looked and acted lovely- but they also were horns;
literal. These snowlace flowerhorns had to be blown, not with bulbs or bellows,
bladders- no air-bladders here. The rider of the tinkling-apart icicle bicycle
was required to apply lips to the laceflower snow horn’s stem, and literally
blow into it to produce one toot, and as the toot was born the snowflower burst
apart to a white dust, which had flat iridescent white flakelets to it, many
hundreds of dozens. Didn’t the flakelets pause? Or was it the eyes that
watched? Didn’t they also find themselves, a cloud, or in a could- a cloud I
meant- in a clod of steamy misted vapor- find themselves accompanied by their
own sound? A creamy kind of undulating percussive many-toned reverberation? And
isn’t this just the trouble in itself?. Questionville was not for nothing named
as such, and the (twenty three) tribes of the Questionfolk scratch themselves
to this day, whatever the season, I imagine- but who knows who reads and when?
Last Sunday was Easter.
The
characters when produced unwatched by kids are dangerous, to say the least. Sasquatch
dispatched one last Sunday, confusing the Catholic contingency by crucifying
him on Easter. There’s nothing to be made of this of course, unless you are a
politician, in which case, there’s to be made of any event, some reason to push
the music in a direction that most folks otherwise wouldn’t countenance. Was
this crucifixon a literal act of an unborn form of hatred? Who’s birthday was
on the horizon when the undulations paused on a breath of a Jane’s exhalation,
and the steeple drew a shawl of snow tight to shoulders, and muffled its own swinging
bell’s clangs? A tongue? Ululating for the steeple’s bell’s a hammer-swinging
situation, where you have a cast brass tulip turned over swinging in one frequency;
and a great, cast, solid bronze hammer that gets to swinging in its own opposed
such. And this is just a walk we took- she and I. Hilda. Pooly. Perfume.
These
things that advantage air for its willingness to carry infections; or auras of different sorts (types,
varieties, forms, categories, species)- people, characters- they bleed into
their own atmospheres- they take these into themselves, and the atmosphere
turns them inside out as well, and grabs at their substance- have you noted the
hands of air’s particles? All have had air’s fingers pluck water molecules from
the outer membrane of very wet lung cells.
Now
it must be said: To continue in certain directions is to become oneself a
priest- has this occurred to you my dear? Have you ever found a certain
starched collar with its intensely dessicating whiteness throttling your
windpipe? This has happened many times to the person currently speaking.
Well,
it’s a prime number of times. A prime number of times I kissed the feet of our
Lord, adding and subtracting from and to the layers of lugubrious saliva that
centuries of chanting clergymen shared in a spirit of great and humble daring.
These feet that rest below my face as I speak. He is a prime number of inches tall-
thirteen- well- the whole carved wood affair of his depiction I mean, including
the cross itself, which extends somewhat beyond the part nailed on to it, His
body- is thirteen inches total. Don’t say “really?”. Its hard enough to
continue, and with gravity on the rise (how many comets have pooped out lately?
With the sound of wounded after-thoughts, of wounded missiles, missiles sent
from the slingshots of kids, I mean, whistling missiles, the ones that sadly
speak when sent against the air’s feathers, against what must be rustled, or
raised- the hackles of air being air’s form of Sasquatch’s essential nature,
the barbs- that eventually, collaborating with gravity- brings things down. How many comets that used to zip by here
without a thought- that would whisk along in their stretched-out oval orbits-
how many have piled into us? Adding to the mass? And this building material is
foreshortening our legs- it always starts with the legs. Not that any of this
is anything to make anything of- something eventually will start tipping things
back the other way- just like the tulip-bell pivots, and open’s its mouth, and
open’s its throat, and what comes out are more seen than heard events just now-
jagged hard-edged shadows. We are grateful for this rain of dark geometry:
triangles, purposes, porpoises, pupils- the pupils of the eyes of cows, neatly
pressed from the purest and shiniest blacks, the depths of which have been
checked carefully by children, and confirmed, as of last Sunday (which was
Easter) to be infinite. (In Questionville- assuming the impossible- which a
writer must always assume[1]-
that you, reading- are not from here- everything is either infinite, or a prime
number).
•••
[1] these rules, where did they
come from? I assume there are a prime number of rules. Can there be an
infinitude?
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