Not Just a Breakfast Food


The natives came to a territory of insufficient funds, yes, and advanced bravely into
debt. The natives were overcome with hospitality and one of the young lad’s kilts
dampened and availed itself of the passing breeze.
“Its evidence becomes you,” observed the burly young lad in the mirror, and he
proceeded to discuss perpetually unemployed lumberjacks with one of the unfortunate
participants until an altercation erupted over the emotional inconsistencies of the Western
Red Cedar.
It was finally becoming clear that the natives had never even given the time of day
to a lumberjack before when the authorities barged in. “Then how will you understand all
these trees?” wondered the displaced young Highlander as one of the ruffians began
exhibiting a single-minded distress. It struck him oddly, as if he had been politely
commanded to, “Hold my beautiful wiener dog.”
“Hath no man traveled innocently to his own castle twice?” queried the Highlander,
clearly implying the escaping answer.
Meanwhile, immersed in a less vertical portion of the flora, Uncle Haggis was on a
tour of camouflaged Irish military installations and had failed to harvest a sufficient
quantity of carrageenan.
Still, when the cauldron has spilled, it is too late to relax the soup. That’s what they
And when the lad’s pining aunt witnessed the strong young fanatic chucking soda
bread at the paddywagon, why, she was just ever so delightfully reminded of her former
religious affiliations. Life among those “frozen chosen” had not been without its rewards,
she asserted, and she donated all of the rare matchbooks still extant upon the plateau of
her mind’s little house of horizontal perfections to the continuing altercation.
The trees were safe.
The funds remained insufficient.
But it’s the English the Scottish like to blame for the acquired habit of timely
interruptions to nearly all the available proceedings. Even when they’re not available.
Or not proceeding. And it’s not always easy to find the English in the English locations.
Some of the perpetrators had been named after accidents of abstract gravity
although it was impossible to tell which ones.
“Yes, it’s time now for a nourishing bowl of porridge,” asserted the damp,
bewildered lad.
And the natives said, “Oh, oh and oh,” and they were transparent beneath the part
you could see.
And their intentions were beneath the part you could not see.
All the visitors had been taught to eat with great relish and a certain disregard for
visitors, who visited anyway.

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.