Awash in a Tumble Down Steamer

Let's be ever full with often and so much and so's, Make us Lord Plumbing and make us whole, Make us absent to make us Brooklyner or absenter of even more, Make us warm in our winter's doubt, per nod, Make us blind in the Eyes of Spektakulet Undunst, below these simple rational dim pieces of shit... 

Stanley’s a caveman of rigid thought. His shoes are tight and his brown shirt rides over the hairy ball that’s his belly. Stanley is stern. The son of Monstre; he has fixations that Monstre should also be himself. Stanley can’t help this faith or the properties of such actions where the outcome of measuring such things will begat the old, the neutral or profoundly girl. 

But then Stanley’s found performing social science research on a sandwich from his pocket and he's sent straight to Afterfollow and then down to Glory Hollow. All he can say is, “it's been something like the economics of this for awhile.”

At Glory Hollow, Pree thinks of him as fish-like or hammer dull. Stanley arrives late and linger long. While neither is a crime, Pree writes in her books that both are rude.

When Stanley eventually reads this, he calls her names. She replies that his penis is like a tarnished clock on the mantle of a broken house. And that all alone, it enjoys pretending that to be wound by a duster that's both bright and quiet.

 

Tonight’s moon is very bright in the perfect stillness of the summer’s lake. The water intake crib is bright with bunting. There are two large cannons waiting on the crib's flat edge. As as the armada passes, both guns open a barrage of heavy flashes and horrible bangs.

On the south end of Lac-du-Park, Parch's Steeple watches. The Steeple’s dark ceramic facade points enthusiastically skyward. The stone and brick tower is not the tallest thing around, but it is a conduit navigating extremities that are mostly just blue and bored, having all the texture that something blank might muster. But tonight the glowing clock face watches the park, the armada and the guns enigmatically. 

Meanwhile, sequestered away from the lugubrious flash and bang outside, there's Pree as she sits with John. 

Mutter mutter, music from the dust, it's like a soft painting of slow herd animals surrounding a solitary dog. Mutter mutter, round with a soft resonant motion. Her damp hands are beneath the loose seam of her cotton dress and she says, "I've missed you. Tell me, how is the world floating still..."

Inhaling sharply, "It's modal. So very modal and sequential," John answers. "The world owes it's necessity to all the Naoists that are still waiting where all of this and everything will meet. The stuff that's been taken apart but not for its pieces, all of it that's been left to lay or urged to die will be gathered again by the Naoists."

"Wild...," they're sitting on tall stools with big wet beers that have foam rolling over their side's like a couple of great white beards on the board of the bar. They talk about potting soil and the length of days until the sweat of the glasses form puddles and both of them know their time has been well minded. Ordering another round, this one, a little more patient then what went before.

John asks about the weather and she share's her stories about Parliament, about the breaking of the fish and the old fire that went before. She shows him how all the 7th Rays and the Panopticon of Ruben, with the motionless Sphere of Density can hurt a heart. By now my hands have grown wet and they're cold from sitting and believing each other all over again and again. But all of the hate and the hurt have turned too, dissolving their moment under a gravy of thick hope as her foot taps the brass rail.

With reluctance Pree pulls some paper from her bag. Before sharing it she explains, "It's messy and I can't unsee it. It's something that Person gave me. Back before Glory Hollow or the ashing even," she adds. 

Handing it to him, John look with both eyes at a thing so brown and broken that he nearly dies with sudden laughter. But then it ends almost before it ever begins. It's like he had no choice, or at least not a good one.

Pulling himself up straight on the stool, "It looks fine Pree." 

She's fidgeting with a linen scrap, presumably from the bottom of her bag as well. "You'd have been a good one, I wished that I offered the job to you before I left. You'd have been a good girl, if being good at being a girl were a thing you wanted be." 

John thinks she's joking and will laugh again. Then he shifts his hand to her knee.

Hiding the linen in her fist, "what Person said, about that microweave and the broken brown box... I'm confused. Has Chuck ever known?"

John says nothing. The Old Man, he knows more than he's let go. But Chair and Person are both in the wind now. Then he remembers a poem his dad once shared, "A hat for a spoon or this jug for a veil, a well placed turnip by the lamp on some nil kept grave. What for this land, if by two or by three? Old at everything that's ever been worthsome, some natter while others might natterly. The chairs do conspire, they hint this table is corrupt and always is meant to be. While I know my table to be crooked and spent. Willing itself to be hung before it’s end, before my tea, before I have sung, before I should see this day be done."

"Damn this arsenal of blindness, damned roses in their frame," he mutters as if no one can hear him. All of it is creeping through the quarrelsome pit of his innards, from teeth to toes. "Only dregs, spit, and ash are left now. The counters going to close soon. When it does, that door might as well have chained itself."