The Disappearance of the Common Farmer


There was a bean in Junior’s cake.
This happened before recrimination became a word.
Toodles played the piano with great gusto. Jack the Butcher sank deeply into a
satin cushion. He was trying to conceal himself.
The expressions of the body opened up certain delicately constructed “situations”
for the guests to attend to.
The recently dead were unable to defile themselves.
The supple conveyance of hidden principles lived beneath the belt of, yes it’s true,
a common farmer. The arms of acceptance and resistance wrapped around the body of his
filial responsibility.
Longing and longing.
So Toodles ate the bean from Junior’s cake. The music, of course, had stopped.
Oh my! Longing and longing.
As in the expressions of the body not belittled and wrent asunder. Junior erect.
Engorged. Jack the Butcher trying to conceal himself still further. Toodles grinning and
“I’m going to close my eyes and when I open them, I expect that bean to be sitting
on my plate,” said Junior.
And because it was really his bean, Jack the Butcher arose from the satin cushion.
No longer trying to conceal himself. No longer merely witnessing delicately constructed
The graveyard whispered and the nighthawks swerved.
Junior’s cake sat beanless.
Toodles didn’t really understand just one bean. Swooped and dove. Bestirring
random fountains in undiscovered cakedoms. The gates of cunning nerve ends asway.
A procession of indulgences. Dashing and jubilation. Further circumstantial
Already, Junior no longer appreciated the carefully arranged furniture in his new
home. Nor did Junior appreciate his new home. Or the friends currently participating in
it. He would have tossed the bean out the window if he could find it.
But Toodles was busy. Very busy. Jack the Butcher adored how busy Toodles was
and this freed Junior to complicate the furniture.
Pretty soon the whole house oozed.
And if they hadn’t all experienced a little too much homogenized Freud and grown
bestirred to eat the rest of Junior’s damaged cake and search ever more desperately for the
exceedingly absent common farmer, well then perhaps they wouldn’t even have noticed
Jack climbing the now excessively symbolic beanstalk or the intoxicatingly suggestive
odor tagging along like a future loved one.
Because someday Junior will become Senior, but Jack will always be Jack.

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.