Involving pointless anecdotes and repetitive alphanumeric sequences, the simultaneous pledge drive of the alternative, classical, and jazz stations failed to dislodge an endless video game jingle from the mind of Uncle Mishka. He tried whistling “Pennsylvania 6–5000,” which worked for a while until someone answered the telephone. Hello, said Cinderella. Hello, was the reply. Is there any hope for you, she asked? Don’t you wish, was the reply, that life was like a cassette tape, always retapable, unless you punch out the little plastic tab on the ledge?
xii — In Front of a Large Building.
Dear widgets, their chia lasted for several weeks and adored the unknown, despite atavistic flops sporting unified folderol. Through a dafter toss–up, K. irreversibly dealt lax noise on how up to date a chutney thyme, fell prone to teetering miserably if unmoussed, and hearing about Manitoba flakes impinging wickiups in heaven, he’d fasted for October.
Ere his hegemony of solid unironic puns were known by scraggly fiat, the only forgotten dusky sea snookered him along with old banyan repasts, and slobbering desires fanned him into a hive of really timid invective. There, foisting static andirons in phlegmy dungeons only innate, the Erlking’s parrot gazed across the asphodel toward a blushing Edwardian carapace, the High Lantern, chirping on a bleak tuffet.
* * *
Overbooked on account of Pentecostal by–laws, it cemented an adroit endoscopy as inescapably savage. A wormy mellow dayglow was lit from within by redacted high tech savants cantering to themes of vide et supra. K. coiled knots, visualizing flimsy pretexts for tumbling into the lobotomy, sweating in duress as he was, to begrudge rusty carrots. He straddled oblong ivory colored malls, marauded amidst torpid glacial energies around the swooning piles, and floundered at the pink doorstop of a less than posh vestibule isthmus, the Blank Negus, whose theocracy was obstructionist in view of its ostensibly tasteless decor.
Pretentiously disguised as an untenet out for a change, K. managed to waltz in time with Theda, vacate a lending machine, and strum enough quatrains with the kinky skylark to collectively miscegenate. If done with enough dim tinsel for a frayed e–kite, elastic minnow homes, ill stentorian patio lathes, tart forensic mute poppies who’d disperse on St. Swithin’s Day, twill beer stubs, ripped lace Dolby medleys, or signal active clarity, none of this prescient acutely rural time was yet evinced, though it was written that a sallow emu who stuck to surly flings of expiation always swam thinly for days.
Did that idyll rank amidst couchant composts of drearier patinas? In a post–it to Fortescue, wading upon manly squeaks of expertise with the “real weird,” K.’s heartfelt fondness for filthy sing–alongs was burnt to cinders after enough furlough. All he tried in that interlude was to mix and match his guitar strings, gurgling to slug off–key brackets from pillar to post, while hoping his stormy mistress might soon bound away.
* * *
As this was easier said than done, he chanced to elicit her sullen ignorance. Her formless eyes squinted at his dull puns, yet despite his monomaniac flow of chatter, she deigned to exhibit gossamer nighties. The breeziest redheads swayed tolerably as she barged into the creek.
Beach scroungers pecked his head with startling dissonance, jays gobbled and turkeys rapped, and dormice shrieked above normal volume occasionally in the blue. This disconcerted other auks, who awakened a tiny charabanc near the hostels, misdeserved and unwillingly released (Thebes’ best echoes told of the afflatus inherent in primeval dewberries).
Thereupon in long decapods, they reviewed each perspective from a nuance. “Their” brickyard shambled down the distempered hiatus toward droll adenoidal relics of lapse in tangentially froward bent. Above them, the rose–colored mirror, tainted with cruel battleship–grey, obtrusively surmounted red garden dwarfs. Rubbery endive werewolves stabilized among the shades.
They caroused at best around rough mock lackadaisical trestle tables with the fairest calm, assimilated into the asphodel of their oasis; what contrast with the preternaturally ethical footsteps above the stone age flagon, where they regarded their new stint!
Buttercups drifted around, flipping therein precipitous sibilance. Their Muses unleashed before too many years in the suburban tracts of Gonzo, they reckoned on happenstance to conceive some twenty–three juvenile silkworms, and dourly drove down bonsai costs. K. was imbued with a sense of futility. Here he was, forlorn amidst bacchanalia! What else could happen?
Circa April 2008.