Listen, sugarpants, you were dear to me then and you’re dear to me now. And thus
the intimate party soars into the tentative future despite the unidentified difficulties. I
don’t know what’s next, but all the psychics agree, it’s not going to stay like this.
Money or no money, this isn’t some pastoral isthmus, sheepish in the
Mediterranean moonlight. Nor could it be described as an old wounded ironing board
with a military limp. Still, many of the guests felt the verbal arrangements excessive.
Not to worry, it’s no longer important that the impact remain subtle and ever so
slowly devastating. I’d rather be seen cavorting with androgynous swimmers.
It’s a children’s toy with another world inside. You poke it and wait, an
undiscovered verb tense in which something may or may not happen. It becomes a
beautiful uncertainty if you don’t live here. And I’ve realized that its warmth achieves me
by traveling through. It’s the same price as rain.
That’s one truth and here’s another: My ancestors lived in Petershead. It’s not
funny. Their dear little heads are not to be more.
It’s okay because I believe in something, though it might be my defiance. There’s
great smoke in it and stars drinking from sourwood. Each second’s violation wounds
time’s seamless offering.
Then the puffy bed arrived and we all got shy. I wanted the rules to be ancient.
The only thing that could help was the anxious butler glancing off the north cupola. It
lacked ethnicity but distracted us equally.
I expected to learn something new. I expected to be unexpected, but you were
already there. I didn’t expect that. Like so many tiny inflated hairy doodahs awaiting a
tennis court. Life does that. Mr. and Mrs. Sociable Lovemeat still know more than I do, I
Just don’t lie to me about me like that. Do it like I do and don’t wipe the undesirable
liquid off that handkerchief. There’s life in it and suspicious undiscovereds disguised as
something you already know, like cookie crumbs hidden in the cookie crumbs.
“I have only read of its incompatibility,” said the new season’s matchmaker,
several questioners gazing from the furious goat tent with crust in their eyes. About as
happy as a broken egg, that man. A sad day in Partyville.
So come visit the wet cider sprocket and the velvet painting of Elvis executed by
monks in Tibet. It’s what I want now. The orphaned pearl of only. The packed mule of
my irresolute consignment. A beautiful tureen of monkey toe soup. A glandular recovery
figure. Adequate leopards in an ancient context. A couple of sleezy brunettes with the
tenacity of moths. A country with a history of freckles and red hair. Slow squalid cries of
ecstasy from the nearly drowned man as the earth turns him around. The heart’s gill
fluttering. . . (What is a halt and how do you call one?)
Disrobe. Return to the clouds. Wait for commitments. Innocence arranged by
appointment. While a distinctly underwhelmed and overly horned creature circles the
gazebo without a clue to the whereabouts of the appropriate ceremony.
Incipient, that’s what it was.
And the only thing that saved us was a few hundred old people telling humorous
stories about the outdated medical devices we all knew we had used to destroy the useless evidence.
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.