Shouldn’t You Be More Specific?


It was accurate, but not specific. I had to give it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I
had to give it acceptance.
It was not available for further comment until after the hydraulics demonstration
and by then it was turning a beautiful shade of turquoise blue.
I was up to something, but I didn’t know what it was. I was most certainly still
breathing though. I couldn’t hear the other guy who was me very well or I might have
shouted. I might have given him another elbow.
I made an heroic effort to be more specific.
By then it was sunset and no one was taking advantage of the porch swing, so I
organized a position of royal entitlement and rocked and swung and rocked and swung.
It was very pleasant and a little purple and nearly acceptable.
But I still didn’t know what my survivor was going to say, so I enclosed the
peanuts, which had become the vehicle, carefully in a spittle-proof jar. I wanted someone
to think I was competent. I wanted him to know what I would not allow.
I was most certainly not still up to something, but I still didn’t know what it was.
So I readjusted the chair and attempted once more to achieve superiority in its
company, but it only rocked and rocked. I expected it to fall over. It did not fall over.
Naturally the porch swing observed without comment.
But I wanted a comment. I wanted a comment and then another comment.
I was up to something, and it didn’t know what I was.
My survivor was still rocking.
I tried to be even more specific, but what he was doing was rocking.
Something came up to me. I was still breathing. It wanted to know what I was, so I
became more accurate, but then it wanted me to be more specific. It wanted me to
literally be there. But I couldn’t because I was, literally, here, offering peanuts.
Specifically. But it had become quite inaccurate. “I can, finally, accept that,” was what I
imagined I was saying to myself, walking down the road, trying to remember what I had
agreed to.

Fiction. Modern Abstract Fables.

(First edition, hardcover with dustjacket, 524 pages, $36.50 USD.)

Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days draws from fairy tales, a condescending of a 1938 Social Studies reader for 6th grade, an 1890 handbook on marital compatibility, numerous annoying educational advancement studies, the myths and legends of third-world countries and minority peoples, pulp fiction, a history of carnival side shows, folktales, frequent conversations with Crows, Owls and a wide variety of underground inhabitants, insects and the people who collect them, Joseph Cornell, Günter Eich, Russell Edson, the French Surrealist poets, the Quay Brothers, letterpress printing, and the author’s inability to channel his imagination linearly.

Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.