To explain the title, these are short little pieces that I put on Facebook. Be warned…there will be more. (maniacal laughter)
The more you read this the more you’ll wonder as to the discombobulated nature of the heretical zygote that brought upon the feeling of a once lost herculean abstractor leading the foremost heroes of a bygone era to eventual conclusion of matriarchs of a beating heart; genteel fathers of mothers that bore zebra swathed infants.
I sat at the table with my grits and spinach leaves. I set my eyes upon the gentleman that rested before me, or in a better way, sat across from me.
“I’m so hungry I could fuck a horse.”
“That girl over there. She looks like she could be a tennis instructor.”
“What did you say before that?”
“It has nothing to do with her physique or the factual nature of her status in the world of present. Just the look about her facial arena.”
“There is a table over there…”
“There are tables all over the place but that doesn’t make your morals any clearer.”
“Did you say you wanted to fuck a horse??”
“Definitely not, it was more of a baroque statement. What’s your deal anyway? You are depressing my hamburger.”
“I’m pretty sure that isn’t happening.”
“Can you prove that statement true?”
I slide my burger over to his person. He gently removes the top layer of bun, examines its integrity, replaces, slides back to me.
“That is a pretty sad burger.”
“I know, right? Happy when I sat down, now a sad little creature. I am afraid I no longer wish to engage in eating with it. You are what you eat.”
“You will become a sad hamburger?”
“I will become a sad obstetrician depressing future children.”
“There are times when my tongue gets so big that I place it in my pocket.”
“I had five jackals that wrestled heavenly in a gust of abstract jelly. They fought four bouts with a grizzled ostrich that overtook them with a flip of it’s wrist.”
“You aren’t one of those adults with the brain of an adolescent child, hmm?”
“I once saw a man with thirteen lives. I once saw a woman so peckish she was avian. A man once saw me as a victim of repetitious malfeasance put upon by hazelnut flavored stationary.”
The man before me, or better yet, across from me stands. Placing a coat over his stocky body.
“I think I’m done here.”
He leaves me, to contemplate the miscreant nature of a bee in a wasps nest.
I once had a xylophone that had keys fashioned from an alabaster untouched by French men. I walked with it one morn, prancing amongst the pixie dust that brought a glittering haze upon the strawberry fields. A desolate sun sat basking in it’s ornery glory. A titmouse flew by singing a song of auspacious children whose mothers had left them to tend their fancies.
I laid my xylophone uponst a forlorn buffalo that nibbled at the berries of the Earth’s nurture. I called upon a song with delicate masculinity, grasping the mallet between index finger and thumb I tapped the first key sending a glorious note through the spectrum and landing in the ear of Abraxas.
Upon sending sound into the meatus acusticus externus, for it to be looked upon in such deviating causeway led me to believe that the science of it all is much better than figurative maleficence brought to life by a fictitious genius.