Crawling Under Cars In the sky blue is the rule of wave-particle bounce. It's the back-and-forth nuance I miss from you... in our day-to-day movement's kiss—curl—punch—suck. On the ground the fallen tumble bucks rule. Though it looks nothing but clutter crazy the crumble-crust rushes over moister stuff like skin, scars, and hair over blood, guts, and brains. It's the same under here-- hard people full of soft potential dodging bullets, bugs, bad tidings, and tantrums by crawling under cars, parked by gods or god-serfs. Their sad machines are an invariable breed for the future. From the backseat, you speak words of love but leave out the consistent actions of love. The crucial dual mechanism (of love & thought) between axle-end and wheel-hub—missing-- keeps our car from moving forward-- stall, rust, degrade, tumble bucks fallen. My hollow-chocolate-easter-bunny-I-love-you-- the crumpled wrapper swimming gutter creeks in winter and reflecting our sky blue void in summer-- melts as car motors echo all around our rusty edges. The sunlight is dying quickly under bumpers as we crawl on knees, toes, hands almost blind. Here, under cars, your lips' rough ruby reflection is a reminder of maps, driving times, backseat bundles, and white-trash coolers on the long road east for our first date—jumping off cliffs or rolling hospital halls, backside to a trolly bed, too small. Here, under cars, maybe they won't notice me for all the fallen tumble bucks passing time as soft potential wastes us all and bugs bomb bullets for rights to our treasured skins. O. Hunt's Bloodless Coup Realized Banks, are no longer robbed by strangers from outside, while dressed as nuns, or in masks of dead presidents. Caper costumes and getaway cars are now online auction items, resold at garage sales; round yellow stickers peeling up price negotiable in St. Louis. All is bloodless during teleportation jumps. Thus, all reshaped forms, re-invested with compulsory blood and marrow, dream of bloodless coups, a mimetic teleportation experience. Paschal Lambs, my friends, forget them where they lie. They lie! For, you don't need a monocle to see banks are robbed from on High. And all things with positive potential have an equal base appeal. O. Hunt runs a small daycare in Boise, Idaho. This is the | feedback | from the aether. Picture it: Ofelia Hunt floating in white wispy dress caring for toddlers. Only true, one wonders, in a devilish profile blurb at Bear Parade. And yet, why not? A false statement, if ever one was read in the light, reveals more than it conceals. Or, a true statement, read with a false heart... Oh, I never wonder anymore. In St. Louis, there's a Safeway store with perfectly parked little Hondas Or, in this case, Boise, Idaho. And the perfectly parked Honda is Ofelia's. “Because one baby is like any other baby”. Right? And babies are most important before they're born. For after, mother's talk about werewolves and black bear traps on cell-phones while polishing their peg-legs. And those babies move from the Rockies to Portland, Oregon just to find... and in find- ing lose- ing them- selves in backwater river dells of aether and words, until fear stops them in Time. Time to type in jest the magically unrevealing, smirk-adorned, phrase: “runs a small daycare in Boise, Idaho.” Then the jest jumps find- ing its selfsame photon in Boise, and leaving an empty version of O. Hunt for me in the bounds of her tabular image frame. The Cabinet of I. Unknown Ishmael, I'm fixated on the guns again;
wondering if anyone's every complimented you on your very nice rack. One rifle looks like it was carried by Clint Eastwood in a movie about a general-purpose western town surrounded by sagebrush and conveniently located watering holes. Another long barrel, with scope and protruding nipples methodically centered under the stock, and under the butt, reminds me of my ex-wife—wooden and stout. Then there's the shotgun; neither the type carried by riot police, nor the zombie slayer sawed-off pistol grip... no, it's an all-day hunter. Barrel, long like a giraffe's neck… if a giraffe could blow a giant hole through your chest from across the street. From the urban, upper-floor window we've all haunted at least once in our vacant, silly, vulgar lives, you aim. And a flash of hunter's orange, as the sunlight hits you, is the only warning on the street below. Of all the guns in your ornate cabinet, none of these mere civilian rifles are my favorite item, no; it's behind a hidden panel on the backside, a magnificent weapon, the hand-forged harpoon head from your epic sailor days. Before the big wars, the bigger bomb, and the computer your bareheaded noggin roamed the streets of seaside towns fighting the frustrations, the isolations, the sparks of genius. It was your growing urge to tip their hats—off, off, off compelling you to the docks that has carried forward in all the minds, and all the hands, of all the heroes who've heard the Other Voice swimming with their own in the darkest waters, at the clearest depths. Off, off, off… to the sea, to the sea… before you snap; before you POP the heads of strangers from an upper-story window.
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