"Somewhere in other places there are flakes who feel a little hungry every day, yet continue to read, bike or swim. Or they roll from work station to station wagon to hueco opener and spill out onto a candy-glazed Rascal what could be paid by the corporment. They don't self deny as much as behave like adults, kiddies: They say: 'Yes, I'm quite famished but I will eat tomorrow no prolm. I can ride my desire right on into a fevered dream of red-faced happiness.' Others of our species are glee deities and can never be gluttons because they absorb unlimited richvictuals and calming vines through their smiling lips with no worry nor wonder."
She was pinning homemade voodoo dolls with human hair to wicker tombstones she had made at home with dead Easter grasses and nailing them to trees. They resorted to baser traditions when the kids were around and/or holidays. Everyone would gather up surplus ribbons and scarves and make masks of K guano and fruit paints. They got mud-doo hair. Meet in the public square like freaks. Then someone from the high chanks show up to buy a loaf or some slurry. Now it's a single-file fool parade with jesters with rape whistles, hand bells, mace, car keys, tape, a drum, seasonings, exhibitionism, and the long-nose high chanker led the fray in a grim backward cap. Afraid.
These were alleys and gutters twixt houses that are flat black stones stacked one upon another. In windows, wooden poles hold up the backs of more flat chalk, shale, flint. Chalk Chank Knolls hadn't been up and coming but would forever be a noble culture no matter how destitute or raw. These life forms are weird polyps of their mighty blood predecessors, aphids milking aged meat who only causes goodness to drop by summoning feed from the air with its smell.
Kevin Reynolds lay on his back at the bottom of Mike's foreclosed swim poo echoing, sobbing. The sound reminded him of la musica chanquera, the rustic kind that twanged back at your song. It was a form of prairie yelping, wailing known in oldtime saloons. Now his world was cement, a drapery of shunning, much as original ropeswingers saw night as a vanity curtain and privacy overkill. Most of all, there was no Mike: the most un-metaphysical man in the world. This had been a place where they could move in and out of one atmosphere and onto the next and up and back from one surface to the other together. Kev just couldn't help belting out,
"A circle of backs makes a cage; all the asses seem flat this way; no matter how much I ballet, they snatch, trap my gay rage.
"Jaula de espaldas,
albergue de silencio,
aparte de mis amargas
lagrimas, gotas sinceras.
"Zif yor on a big-top lion's den expressing your nails, glands, in a trade of begging, demands with chairs dressed as men.
"Cerrajon de esperanza, Cojonudo de fortitud, Menos carne indefensa: unica arma, boca inmensa.
El tiempo: padre mentiroso, padre de gases, tirando tus peditos en pleno rostro, cada segundo toma otro pelo, medida vergonzoso, timo de tela, estafa de nada, de engano, tio; putada, lio, hueco vacio, espiritu, capricio, munecas, idolillo; parasito. plasta. fuera. le paso. me mosceas.
Way after the violent gnashing of hard drives in public oracle dispensers had become a given, even a homey reassurance, sucking on a shivstick, Peg could often be heard to bleat, "Well I don't want to live forever, growing a two-thumbed ombligo. I'd rather keep the process movin, movin."
It was comments like these from the deities that began to lead certain ad-hoc temporal realizers to believe that the entire concept of time itself was a hoax and a fraud developed during early civilization to compensate for setbacks in the arms race. Each side was complicit because the scam functioned to shield corpornents, goverations, philosophers from skeptics, artists, cretins to whom they could easily attribute skepticism, artsiness, hypothyroidosis.
In primitive terms, shivsticks are a time machine. More moving happens, more activity in your cavity. Yet not so much as to create a tragic instant bygone. Your consciousness itself progresses to a level of acceptance it may take others decades to achieve in a "time" paradigm. They, in turn, learn early to mourn.
Had three docs look adit. One was this Tattooed Urologist called Don out on Red Light Highway. Claimed to be an operator. Said my prostate was too small. I gave him The Slip, Dad's Toilet Kit Gaping behind the Front Seat.
Second was a Happy Orphan fraid he'd find an Archetypal Angry Parent if he asked me to Drop Trow. His contribution was Advisement to Do Nothing, but that only Makes Time Stop; A Man Has to Act.
I listen to the little voices inside me for when I really Want to Cream: My Dead Posse. They said check out the Queen in the Filling Station. They moaned her name into their hats.
Every time his head surfaced, he'd scream at the cameras, "How do I kill it?! How do I kill it!" and it would again twist him under the muddy foam. They were rolling, and the beast's plastic branks had come off in the scuffle. Kevin would have been crying if he had not needed to maintain, to save his life, a fierce persona. The electronic eyes became absurd to him then. He had to squeeze these prehistoric lips together in a lovelock and keep it shut until emergency services could hooptie on over. Publicity may have been his job, but he felt he had already stretched his adventure comfort aperture nearly to snapping.
Meanwhile a family of K's coasted about 250 rods above the desert floor. While they appeared to be a team, each one was searching, lost in its own way. Parents and chillun. Their bodies knew to fly to the left of another's wind, but that was all. Then they heard Kevin Reynolds's horrific squalling.
They turned as one and on a diagonal, calm as death, swooping low enough to take him. There was no question which. As deity, a mother must step forth to challenge the moral capacity of any contrary life form.
The sweat from the back of Kevin's neck began to pool under Peg's tongue.
Clipped in her beak, flanked by her significant others, Kevin wondered if they, now, might eat him, removed from record on a windy chank cliff, solemnly, as if picking through a reliquary.
iout9p2q83751983ngvo3inuv[03947v6n;oqwprettyieut098pictures34576n[qvuglyo3i9words4vun'qoi3nuy9p2q83751my_decaYcreates_homes_for_otheRcreatures_+WE CAN'T HELP LOVING AND WE CAN'T STOP