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| these are not the windows |
John will walk home from the Afterfollow at the Dutch. Pree and John still meet but MomJean dies. Helen and John meet like they're doomed. MomJean has a funeral and Betta and Gretta are there. Mantana gets hurt by the viaduct and Claudio is late for his pigege. Monstre Owen will send Claudio to Frango's office afterwards. The outline continues after this for a while. Eventually it becomes more confusing until it trails off in a series of disjointed and random words that end with the letter, be.
This is all there is for now, I tell him. The persistence of our sun heckles the crabby morning as it's crawling out onto the beach. The bones of its day are already damp and they're warming while its truth is only just still tart. By midday it'll yellow and green into a deep purple. Then it'll bloat before it's time for supper. Selmadeen pushes back his small chair. The weight of the table shifts and the pale cups of tea shake like winsome dolls. Will this monument to tall buildings, will it wear a taller hat by then...
Where parallel lines meet your old smart ass, that's where you and I will find out. Good day to you, I say into my torn sleeve. My black socks are wet from the earlier shower. My shoe's toe has opened up. It's separated so the long tongue and frayed laces are hanging in the sand.
Thank you so much, Selmadeen bows at the waist keeping his back arrow straight. His silly top coat makes a rumpled noisome sound like the trim leather of a well sized glove. I hope you've had a lovely breakfast here inside my documentary, he adds with his thick accent rolling around in his perfect mouth.
Then he steps aside to remind me of the box that I left on the table. Its cheap foil paper and round bow looking out of place sitting with the china cups. Radical booze and years spent turkey farming upstate have left my hands desperate and hard to manage. I find it difficult to write my name now so I've had to give up my work as a notary, I tell Selmadeen. I'm still a docent on the weekends but that's different isn't it, I grab the box with my free hand and tuck the yellow manuscript under my arm.
After all of those years of shitty sex, Selmadeen explains deeply. Do you really think I'd let this go by unnoticed. Besides, he adds. I might not agree with all of your talents but I do like your choice in pets. He steps over to the wooden cabinet in the corner. It's tall and plain, after the manner of antique Dutchcraft. It's a solid piece of work with easy lines and a dark character.
I recall seeing a barn being burned to the ground when I was younger. The long sweeping fields of wheat behind it ran black that night as soot and ash fell from the sky. Once when I was in the middle of the country I saw this lamentable thing happen. I listened to the horses and I cried. It was terrible to see and now it's a part of me Selmadeen.
They found the lanterns responsible for that Clifford, Selmadeen hands to me the folded square from his pleated pocket.
They found nothing important, I dab the corner of my eyes. They found what they were meant to find.
Where parallel lines meet your old smart ass, that's where you and I will find out. Good day to you, I say into my torn sleeve. My black socks are wet from the earlier shower. My shoe's toe has opened up. It's separated so the long tongue and frayed laces are hanging in the sand.
Thank you so much, Selmadeen bows at the waist keeping his back arrow straight. His silly top coat makes a rumpled noisome sound like the trim leather of a well sized glove. I hope you've had a lovely breakfast here inside my documentary, he adds with his thick accent rolling around in his perfect mouth.
Then he steps aside to remind me of the box that I left on the table. Its cheap foil paper and round bow looking out of place sitting with the china cups. Radical booze and years spent turkey farming upstate have left my hands desperate and hard to manage. I find it difficult to write my name now so I've had to give up my work as a notary, I tell Selmadeen. I'm still a docent on the weekends but that's different isn't it, I grab the box with my free hand and tuck the yellow manuscript under my arm.
After all of those years of shitty sex, Selmadeen explains deeply. Do you really think I'd let this go by unnoticed. Besides, he adds. I might not agree with all of your talents but I do like your choice in pets. He steps over to the wooden cabinet in the corner. It's tall and plain, after the manner of antique Dutchcraft. It's a solid piece of work with easy lines and a dark character.
I recall seeing a barn being burned to the ground when I was younger. The long sweeping fields of wheat behind it ran black that night as soot and ash fell from the sky. Once when I was in the middle of the country I saw this lamentable thing happen. I listened to the horses and I cried. It was terrible to see and now it's a part of me Selmadeen.
They found the lanterns responsible for that Clifford, Selmadeen hands to me the folded square from his pleated pocket.
They found nothing important, I dab the corner of my eyes. They found what they were meant to find.
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