I am always writing blooded ink upon a vitreous rock; blown quartz
that’s spit from the attic window like a taut cluster of crystalline hail
and slipped upon after a brief boff on the roof. This is gonna sting.
Ouch! This is gonna show. Oops! This is by far the best carnival
side-show of small-town youth, mid-1980’s, hair flown back to the
warehouse in intervals: there’s Bruce in Hangar 1, here’s a big bouf-
fant from a B-52 in Hangar 2 and, catch if ya can, not one, not two,
but an entire Flock of Seagulls in Hangar 5. You’d been reminded,
of course, that it’s best not to show Edie up until eleven, even among
the jaded columns where the crowd really begins to swell, with its
haps, its gossip columnists and its all kindsa laughs (laughing gas,
laughing stocks, the laugh riots; it’s a laugh a minute!). Now, we
the jaded columns where the crowd really begins to swell, with its
haps, its gossip columnists and its all kindsa laughs (laughing gas,
laughing stocks, the laugh riots; it’s a laugh a minute!). Now, we
all know how it goes with poor Mz. McClurg. And it—well, that was,
after all, an impolite, unjust, untimely and grossly impractical joke. But.
after all, an impolite, unjust, untimely and grossly impractical joke. But.
It was one that (and from here on, no one can keep a straight face!)
has an explosively overloaded punchline—a punchline so overstuffed—
and overfluffed—lest we forget it is a red herring, which—oh my god—
and overfluffed—lest we forget it is a red herring, which—oh my god—
that fluffy carmine tickler—the one that the mistress used for the entire
duration?—on that poor, unnecessary colonel (who was just the butt of
it all, was he not?)—so that when the actual fluffer (people are barely
standing they’re so consumed at this point)—when the—actual fluffer
arrived, and lands center-stage for the real climax it all? Oh—dear—
heavens! Not only is it the “last laugh” (Wink! Wink! Guffaw! Guffaw!!),
but it’s the one that will go down into the annals of hisstory!
And of yours. And mine, too, I’m afraid. And why not?
I mean, after all, such are the sensations that
memories, ahem, unclog. Anyway, anyway,
afterwards, with all of us lined up like ballerinas
at the buffet bar (someone blurted out “bananas!”),
boy, did we fork it over, or what? And at the end
of the day, all of us, comatose, staring at that
shaded tree (like always; we’re in awe of it, that
unswervingly singular home to our countless
shaded tree (like always; we’re in awe of it, that
unswervingly singular home to our countless
elevens). Ah, elevens—elevens’re always gettin’
into such mischief. Well, then. Swim, how?
