I found his communication
pill ineffective; all wounding
me with gag words, the fluff of
an eggy vapor, like that of passed
gas, if veneer appears it shows up
as a bunch of billowing blobs which
are each and all too leaky-baloony
to pop or hold any air of danger,
nothing but nothing on the in-
side. My job’s Mountain-out-
of-Molehill Maker. I whoop
up this guttural baloney and
turn it into something polished.
I’ve tuned up the blandest,
turned tar into tarnation,
goosed the dullest bulbs
til out came naught but
big, bold and italic. It’s
all simple mathematics,
really. Rub a rookie
just right and he’ll
poop a diamond.
Happens all the
time: the lights
dim, a hush
sweeps
through
Laughin’
Cavern (it’s
what you’d imagine
Hell’s most enormous con-
ference hall would be, brimming
with what seems to be millions of
stinky minions, the worst of the worst
of the absolute worst, all packed
like sardines into one gar-
gantuan, dark, dank,
smelly, endless
cave); and
blessed be
the vapid
tonight,
for there’s
not a dry eye
in the entire house.
