Slammin’ the fit-o-deena–ground lengthwise across a bawdy expanse of thneeds
(which everybody needs)–we took our serenades elsewhere, confident in our knowledge of the occult (i.e. the back-stabbery and latent overall treachery that sorts itself out over the course of dozens of generations) and its ability to stall disbelief as one would when faced with a Mel Brooks-esque (or, to a lesser extent, Mel Blanc-ish) dilemma involving the safety of an entire town, where the hapless protagonist even agonizes over the insignificant-yet-unique blood splotch patterns on each and every last hitching post (with the hopes of creating a permanent photographical installment at the Getty and cementing his status as one of the pioneers of pre-modernized main street massacre legacy documentation that would span the seldom-understood and often-demonized “Wild West” (that is, if he has anything to say about it)).
Tag: Pioneer
NaPoWriMo: Day 4
Stalling media circuses smell like grandiose gestures made for clowning, not
necessarily a healthy way to spend your last fifty cents. Though most agree
with those policies, I figure one fish against the current can’t do much,
unless it plugs itself into the wrong end of the influential vacuum, cutting
off its own air supply to free all its kind from a straight march forward
through nothingness–they can veer, spin and smack fins at the novelty of
free motion. The preconceived pathway vanishes before their eyes, and to
their amazement, they may putter along in any old direction, even the one
from which they came! The more sentimental creatures return to the scene
of the crime, their once vital friend limp, head still serving as a cork–
precedent and history, its friends give thanks and praise, as is proper.
WHARVED 