Collaboration
Drive a line drive a line through this line and this line
in consequential bafflement;
there is on way to this construct
that which has been constructed
by the invisible thoughts,
the alluding pensive and ringing hammer strokes
on a wall which is also a
corner which is also a black shadow of
an open flimsy cardboard box, shattered
pulp under the weighted bearings one
man will discover
while coughing into
rags of gasoline.
Fire! There was a fire! What?! Yes, a fire, they were all there. The midgets escaped in their VW bug, but the monkeys, oh shit the monkeys: well let's say they didn't make it. The girls with the tamborines were singed but they're still singing and dancing at the Brothel next door. Did anyone come to help, I asked? Well not really, said the old man with a hard on, but old lady McFarinn turned on her sprinklers and was screaming like a siren from her rooftop in the nude. In the nude?! I say in shock, she's nearly one hundred years old! Yes, but she is a strong ol' Bird, he said. Suddenly from the east it dawned on me about the crackhead who lives in the basement; where was he? Well, said the old man before I could ask, the crackhead from the basement is how this whole fire got started. Of course he is, I say in my most holiest of tones, what was I thinking? Then the old man put his hand up to silence me and said, don't speak foolishly based on your limited knowledge of crackheads. He didn't start the fire himself, so there is your first misconception, if I am correct? Yes, I say sheepishly, feeling like the most judgmental and ignorant piece of shit. Go on, I say. Well, he was lit on fire by a group of mothers against drugs. Wow! I say, how'd they do it? He rambled a little until: they came in while he was sleeping and doused him with gasoline, and then lit a match. So that's how the fire started? Well sort of, you see the crackhead jumped up and jumped into his bathtub to put out the fire but he didn't realize that the bathtub was full of motor oil! To be precise, it was Pennzoil -the mothers had planned, appropriately, that he would dash there, to the bathroom, first- which caught ablaze immediately. The old man's eyes glanced to his wood, withered like a young, dead tree. He continued saying: as flames licked and climbed the shower curtain and seared the screaming metal of the rings across the rod -I can only imagine- the Crack head screamed as well, didn't you hear it? No, I said, I was asleep! Ah, he said sagely, that is your folly. How can you sleep while monkeys burn in the night? How can you rest while memories vanish to flame? Is it that you were at the Brothel, then? I paused and glanced around for an answer that would sound convincing or true. Nothing came. Yes, I like the atmosphere, I said with a hesitancy. Ah, he said again. He grabbed his knobby boner through his pants and shook it at me. For that I can hardly blame you!
in consequential bafflement;
there is on way to this construct
that which has been constructed
by the invisible thoughts,
the alluding pensive and ringing hammer strokes
on a wall which is also a
corner which is also a black shadow of
an open flimsy cardboard box, shattered
pulp under the weighted bearings one
man will discover
while coughing into
rags of gasoline.
Fire! There was a fire! What?! Yes, a fire, they were all there. The midgets escaped in their VW bug, but the monkeys, oh shit the monkeys: well let's say they didn't make it. The girls with the tamborines were singed but they're still singing and dancing at the Brothel next door. Did anyone come to help, I asked? Well not really, said the old man with a hard on, but old lady McFarinn turned on her sprinklers and was screaming like a siren from her rooftop in the nude. In the nude?! I say in shock, she's nearly one hundred years old! Yes, but she is a strong ol' Bird, he said. Suddenly from the east it dawned on me about the crackhead who lives in the basement; where was he? Well, said the old man before I could ask, the crackhead from the basement is how this whole fire got started. Of course he is, I say in my most holiest of tones, what was I thinking? Then the old man put his hand up to silence me and said, don't speak foolishly based on your limited knowledge of crackheads. He didn't start the fire himself, so there is your first misconception, if I am correct? Yes, I say sheepishly, feeling like the most judgmental and ignorant piece of shit. Go on, I say. Well, he was lit on fire by a group of mothers against drugs. Wow! I say, how'd they do it? He rambled a little until: they came in while he was sleeping and doused him with gasoline, and then lit a match. So that's how the fire started? Well sort of, you see the crackhead jumped up and jumped into his bathtub to put out the fire but he didn't realize that the bathtub was full of motor oil! To be precise, it was Pennzoil -the mothers had planned, appropriately, that he would dash there, to the bathroom, first- which caught ablaze immediately. The old man's eyes glanced to his wood, withered like a young, dead tree. He continued saying: as flames licked and climbed the shower curtain and seared the screaming metal of the rings across the rod -I can only imagine- the Crack head screamed as well, didn't you hear it? No, I said, I was asleep! Ah, he said sagely, that is your folly. How can you sleep while monkeys burn in the night? How can you rest while memories vanish to flame? Is it that you were at the Brothel, then? I paused and glanced around for an answer that would sound convincing or true. Nothing came. Yes, I like the atmosphere, I said with a hesitancy. Ah, he said again. He grabbed his knobby boner through his pants and shook it at me. For that I can hardly blame you!