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| fig.3.02) funky pie, old as steam |
In all, the polite ambiguity that's underneath the blinking red sign, that's all up and down the whole length of this floor as dodder and waddle unfold into quiet chatter and cocktail peanuts. Questions shimmy along the walls and some of them smell just like toast in the morning. Where buntings aplenty perch among the tables of flowers there are cummerbunds with smart epaulets adorned by stupid men in drunken spirits.
When I'm done, we step outside to watch the road burn, "it's still Tuesday night somewhere? But we're going to see the doors open and close first." Right then, time seems to have stilled. It's become more patient, as though its legs weren't attached to the ground anymore. So I bob upward, a little bit higher.
There are chips from the machine, for later. But for now, there's plenty of water, "Then boop, we're screaming right past bedtime." The blinkering exit sign makes itself known.
Mr. Lincoln is very tall indeed, I can remember holding onto to a crop of his wild hair as if it were the reigns of a horse as it strode out into the deep waters not far from Kitty Hawk. On a very splendid day such as this, Mr. Lincoln liked to sing very much. Saying that singing made his nose tickle and that when he sang his favorite songs, there would be sneezes for days. Poor poor Mary Todd, poor indeed.
Anyway, I was meeting with Wilbur and Orville when I bumped into Mr. Lincoln. The scalawag, always roaming up and down some beach by himself, hunched over and looking for the loose change or bits of cigarette he might find in the sand. It's hard to believe that a former President does this, I know! But I swear that every bit of this story is true and that Mr. Lincoln's pockets would bulge with bottle caps and bendy straws.
When I find him he's humming and sneezing, the bright sand seems so alone underneath his tree, "stay at home like its life in a bag and eat my food from a jar. Whose canary can this be, I remember its tree as being mine all along? Does anyone remember all of their plates and saucers leaving so soon? Can anyone remember where they've failed, who has winced or when they were talked to about the lights creeping under the door?
"Is that an olde song or a rhyme, something to be carrying around in this jacket of mine?"
Anyway, I was meeting with Wilbur and Orville when I bumped into Mr. Lincoln. The scalawag, always roaming up and down some beach by himself, hunched over and looking for the loose change or bits of cigarette he might find in the sand. It's hard to believe that a former President does this, I know! But I swear that every bit of this story is true and that Mr. Lincoln's pockets would bulge with bottle caps and bendy straws.
When I find him he's humming and sneezing, the bright sand seems so alone underneath his tree, "stay at home like its life in a bag and eat my food from a jar. Whose canary can this be, I remember its tree as being mine all along? Does anyone remember all of their plates and saucers leaving so soon? Can anyone remember where they've failed, who has winced or when they were talked to about the lights creeping under the door?
"Is that an olde song or a rhyme, something to be carrying around in this jacket of mine?"
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