How Often Do You See The Back Of Your Own Head?

The back of the head.

You often see the back of the head. Here, now I want to show you the front, or at least my version of it.  You could find it useful to remove your glasses. Here, let me get  you a glass of water. Are you feeling better? I wish I could tell why you seem to be altered in some way. It's like your very thin arms have grown a new head. It's devilish. Why have I kept you from meeting my former friend? Is it because you're a mighty opponent? I know that one too. It's kind of like a felled bristule when you've had one. Have you? It's okay if you haven't. My wife thinks I'm in town for the day.

There was a moment right before you called me, just a few seconds really. My tie (yes, I do wear a tie indoors) was caught in a spring-loaded foreign cleaning device. Your voice had a scratchy quality. I felt a little brazen, I must admit. If I told you where I placed my favorite vest in the overnight squat-bock, you've pretended to forget. Until now that is. Now you come at me with a story. One for the books! 

I've told you that I'm blind now, haven't I? No? Well why didn't you ask? It would've taken all of a second or two. Why do I get the feeling we're operating on different wavelengths? Your rhythm of chewing is a real buzzkill. I'll get over it. I always do. It's in my nature. I'm a national treasure. We're all set to flee. We won't bring anything. It's just not right. There's a weight limit for sure. A bell will close soon. My own delight is overly warm.   

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Sonic Scrumptiousness: The Ballad of Nosemeat

Experimental Prose Wherein Some Sentences Lack One Or More Elements Deemed Essential For Proper And Correct Sentence Construction.

Sidled one pure time upon this land. A choice to laugh with a ball. The sterner stuff we are not made from. Stakes torn free. The Scottish landowner who directs my club is now a grown-up grumpy Grandpa. As told to. By wired light. Shingles.

A tan from the brown under him so far, is a very old-timey crew. We've been here. The appointment is voided. And so, to mar Vilander as onyx miffs. Your truth. Where is a thing?

Before now, I said. We do not stop continuing. A pressure. Seeping. Overly bold signage corrupts a native youth. The land in my breast de-foots the tray of edibles.

As through your Jack-ruffled skirt, him dined as one side grew sterner. And our plot doubles as a trim suicide barnicle. Tram-Solly. You win. Shit.

Trail is her stomach. A brim as such. To a Jewish Lord in vines. I will plead for your coat. Whose stomach is braver?

Start it anywhere, since you can always cut off the local red thing. The semi-precious is graded for fate and straw. By our locavore's own testimony, a slick oze-tasting item is free for tough swinging pests. A tribute to oxygen.

'A chair' he thought. My own pilfered sitting place is obvious in the background. The scene is to be adjusted as to tint. A time-wise pasture. Jerry-my-dough, you kiss with a very real grappling. Poor is near. New Simon Donald's practice. Does not hurt.

Was told. The knock is prior to our beastly occurence. A brick is grace with Tollins. He marks me. With Joe. A very pressing cave. This is a tip: always supervise a team with inner wheat-form. You won't thunder. Might be even tighter.

Jim is sad. Part of a reason for this time period is not yet still clear. Our wise, clean sealed apple is Lord to People. Adjust. Delay. Announce. Fry.

Who will mark a different holder? Chippers? It is your lens that we appreciate. How goes it in Owner's World? Would you have golf as breakfast? A germ? Diesel fumes?

Hold these nightly missings and we train the one-be-goff. Lonely Powder be God!

As the two over this tree are balanced. A trim was woke. Bre-Kone-Ed. And nuclear particles seal the fake. Bringing livers to market. Real bold! Choke. (Sigh?) 

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______A Tidy Tale to Extend___ ___Your Feeling of Comfort.___

The most bewitching series of Soundcraft berricles are placed before a sullen gent, still conveniently oval in his bearing, with a delicious breath-enabling insouciance, which can not possibly rival the Dutch hitting-team's nitrogen palm print in all but size of concept.


Through the window of a classic piece of San Movidéo rolling stock, I espy my favorite Kennedy T-shirt to date. Just a glance is all it takes and the flavors of my winning purse envelope a transitional post-Weinsteinian nullity and barely break my glance as in a three-dimensional wasted punctual tiding. Of furious, entitled bearing we shall not be accused, at least not without cause-to-alarm and a benefit-to-doom ratio not exceeding one point seven.


What if a ransom is pried from the cold, dead fingers of a corrugated fence salesperson and our delightfully overdrawn bench project was seen as a thing-in-itself while a resting heart rate entered a last uncanny valley with coats asunder? Then you'd thrill to the sound of one grand applause signal gone viral but not before we've drawn the attention of all directly functional steaming points of yuck.

The Wheat Foundation Gala, even when postponed, creates a non-ordinary payoff in the fictional world of Sandy Times characters whose bold decisive malevolence is something not to be taken lightly as to pen in mouth. The following month we will aim to stride forward openly declaring a shady purpose for all so see, even as a dissociated Proctor's evening wick enables a seething pine drip to give license with a thwack, not a thud. 

The Break of How, it can now be told, is just so much aprected nedule to flip my sanity bourse and hone a perfectly sacrosanct murder in the duty bound lustrous oxides currently in favor as hypester broken wire gimlets ram it home for good.


Anyone, anyone at all in fact, who will kneel in my corner and corrupt my fairer course, is hereby absolved of all duties to encrust the patriot-of-record in a dual citizenship award fright wig, as paltry as that sounds in light of the now solid after-action report which graces my desk at the Moon Bank Derby.


We can't tell you about these staircases without a pledge, in hide-bound dollar denominated pastry mints, to signal a wizened grief strategy even while a cup (in tandem with a rifled drawer) is presented with all due sentience, to my personal border guard, Eftensio Talon, father of none.


You've got a story. What is it? 

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What's Up With the 'Minions of Vul'?

It's a vestigial tandemonium when you insist on grabbing my Swiss-gardener style prosthetic penis with your oil-flecked 'bad' hand at dusk in the virtual Lower 48. A secret stain, much to the consternation of the vile singing duo who walk with an obviously fake limp, in a now-you-see-it-now-you-don't type of whimsy, is all we can manage before a defoliated forensic prank limits a prisoner of conscience to a fair-trade puncture of gullible trophy wives in a five-time offeration of Die Zeit.

The plan we've talked about with our respective spouses is a good start, or so I've been told. But my name keeps coming up in a list of same-day collusive iccubents when our paths cross and only one of us is bleating, usually the fatter one. Now I've given your tablet a soothing ride and propelled a soiled napkin to second place in everyone's first mover's list in a baldly transparent offering of woolen recording technologies. But the grain you've railed against, like a breast cancer survivor's momento, is only a branding opportunity if the local Jesus Festival is postponed for yet another decade.

It's decision time and we're afraid you either won't (or can't!) make the necessary preparations to avoid yet another wasted trail of effluents at your doorstep. It would be a pity, in all but the strictest interpretations of the word 'word', if the satisfaction you pretend to feel in my obfuscated presence were to become just one more aborted prelude to a lake drainage scheme retailed like so much crabbage to a solitary faction of drone-praising elderly Minions of Vul.

Why should I continue to green the latest orper and tag a Southern Bastion with artificially sweetened flame retardant while the map you insisted I install is a known forgery that even my indicted accountant would strain to swallow? Somehow it's always like this.The short end of a misplaced piece of string seems a fitting summary of something we should agree to never discuss. You have my word. NOW SAY IT! 

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Anatomy of a Nightmare.

It seems I've given the slip to a person who has been following me since my last summer in Cape Verde, which was over three years ago now. He (or she, I could never tell) would approach each of my victims offering free admission to a Baking Ideology Course at the local extension. I always had a different answer when they asked my opinion. Some thought I was noncommittal, others testified (in court!) that I was a profound thinker. It seems I had everyone fooled.

Anyway, so, starting about six minutes ago I noticed a brown sedan idling in a vacant lot that borders my property on the Southwest. I say this because I've had a terrible cough lately and I can't get enough sleep. I've been told to keep my back arched while driving or knitting. I'm getting just a little bit tired of trying to please all of my various health care providers by following their deeply ambivalent advice, but, since I'm in it for the long haul I'll play along. It's always served me well, but who's counting?

So about noon yesterday I received an emergency phone call from my Primary Care physician outlining a plan to escort Miss Idaho (1957) on a 'dream vacation' (HA!) to the Maldives in the Indian Ocean. My short-wave radio has been on the blink so I'm hesitating to go through with it. He (the physician) is offering a one-time cash bonus of US$1,000.99 to negotiate a plea agreement for his developmentally disabled niece who has been charged with sending neo-Nazi memes to Mayor Conklin's divorced receptionist. This has got the whole town talking. And talk they do! About sports, favorite TV shows and car battery maintenance. You know, the usual.

While I can't report any out-of-the-ordinary activity yet with respect to the brown sedan, I'm keeping my fingers crossed. I don't really believe in the whole keeping-your-fingers-crossed thing but I figure it can't hurt so I'll just go right ahead and do it anyway. Except for one little thing, to wit: my fingers itch like the dickens, so I hesitate. Look, if this thing 'goes south', I've got a pound of metal in my garage that should make things go the way we expect, if you catch my drift. Do I have to spell it out for you? Please don't make me do that, okay? I only met you three days ago (REMEMBER?) and you already have a bowling trip planned. It's really time to 'play it cool'. Why? Because Winter is coming and the left sleeve of my Hunter's Blouse is coming undone and (you know this!) THE WORLD IS ON FIRE!! 

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Message From Superman.

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The Real Topic At Hand.

We owe it to the last participants to give them our nod of approval. Someone or something, is escaping as part of a test. The test will determine the suitability of certain materials to withstand crisis situations. A person I befriended during the last war is slated for a position as Unknown Witness in a club re-do of the fifth cycle which completes this year's test program. The problem which arises again and again concerns the colors worn by elite members to signal completion. For some reason, members with multi-syllabic surnames experience a noted shortness of breath while wearing robes in the red-orange-yellow part of the spectrum. Our mascot, a possum named Jerpy, usually hides under the platform when this happens. He's very sensitive, you see. And this creates, let us say, a 'situation', since his participation is crucial for a proper performance of the Command Ritual. Otherwise an infinitesimal speck of graphite is sometimes mobilized at the behest of our opponents, and, in rare cases the entire building can catch fire. When this occurred three years ago our collection of rare linens, which were supposedly secured in a fire-proof cabinet suffered irreparable damage and our entire yearly cycle came to naught.

I only mention all this as a prelude the  real topic at hand, which, weirdly enough, concerns my own left hand. You see, even though I am, like most people, right handed, I've always experienced what some might call an obsession with my left hand. All of which is okay except for the fact that nowadays no matter where I go there seem to be photographic, video and any other type of concievable depictions of my left hand appearing willy-nilly day or night, rain or shine, you get the idea. 

You might be wondering how I know it's my left hand. Well, that's easy. I have a tattoo on the ring finger between the nail and the knuckle of a three-headed ant named Jeremy Parker (from a cartoon series from the UK in the '60s). And so, everywhere I look, be it the underside of a snow shovel to a half-eaten sandwich in the trash receptacle outside the Metropolitan Opera to the overpass of the Van Wyck Expressway over the Grand Central Parkway, what do you think I see? That's right, some kind of depiction of my left hand, complete with identifying tattoo. Could be a photo or even a crude crayon drawing, even a tracing in the dust on a dirty car windshield. And frankly this has me pretty upset. Why? Because this is my special hand and I don't fancy any Tom Dick or Harry or Jane Sue or Martha just getting their private jollies looking at pictures of my hand without even asking my permission! Please God LET IT STOP!! 

Sorry friend, this AIN'T NOT
my left hand. Try again!

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Sonic Emolument Claw.

An Confession.

Pieces of a Mystery.

The pieces I brought with me are tightly controlled as to their limited issuance and availability. Another piece is in the right front pocket of my dress pants, but they were left with a friend in Delaware by mistake. That friend is only marginally acquainted with medieval warfare strategies even though we went over it time and time again to prepare him for an exam in his Adult Extension Course. A Course such as this is usually held during the final two weeks of August, but this one took place the following May. 

It occurs to me that I should mention his wife. She's of Bulgarian descent but you wouldn't know it from her accent, or lack of one to be more precise. Certainly if she went to Australia or England she would have an accent, or be perceived to have one, but not here in New Jersey, is all I'm saying. In case you might be wondering, my friend's wife is living in New Jersey only temporarily while managing an industrial scale chicken hatchery as a favor to my godmother, Felicia Griswold. And even though I've never actually met Ms. Griswold, I'm fairly certain that I could recognise her anywhere since it's a well known fact that she has dark hair. She used to wear glasses but no longer does due to last year's Lasik surgery.

The pieces I brought with me are not more than three years old. I know this because there's a chain of custody which is precisely documented. The prior versions of the pieces are easy to spot. They have thin white edges whereas these pieces' edges are a mottled gray. It doesn't effect their performance, or at least shouldn't if everything is 'up to snuff'.

There's a pattern some of us have noticed wherein if one of the pieces is dropped (usually by accident), then a more lengthy recovery time than planned is in order. You see, since the pieces are all of slightly different weights and they're made to work together as a kind of mechanism, even though never having any direct physical contact, the droppage could cause the wrong side to become exposed to either natural or artificial light which is likely to adversely affect breathing patterns worldwide. We've been warned to never allow this to happen. 

This warning, and others, are par for the course at the yearly briefing where I usually only have the decaf. At the most recent one however I had Earl Grey tea. It was a nice change of pace. Other things are changing too, like my favorite TV show for example. I used to be a total slobbering fanboy of Newscenter 9 and now it's ActionNews 3 or I'm outta here! So take that! 

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One More Fact About Fashion Thursday.

"Don't tell us which side you stood that thing under while I peed myself, okay?". I'm whipping through a knifelike trough as I make this last request after speaking with Jill Abrams. I've known her to hold a blanket to a railhead while a pitiful sanitary lock pricks the conscience of a station. The same attitude she brought into the daily struggle is the one we saw opening into a wedge of our toothsome dreamy foothold. 

A lake (Lake Geneva, I think) is worth a thousand vested wands when a discourse ends inconveniently in a surprisingly pleasant convection. We're afraid of the influence you wield on more than one sorry occasion. But first, a taste not unlike benzene engulfs the town in my sick fantasy. Can't—WON'T—get enough. Don't want to. Shouldn't have to. Tries anyway. Seeks solace. Sucks shoelaces. It's his weird yet harmless, what?,... perversion? I never told you that. It was just an assumption that could get you killed in a momentary blunder. I'll protect you until that ladder you covet is a ring of the ghast. 

On the plus side, that ring is just the briefest interruption to my mega-brain results. It speaks for itself. Not enough to hobble a ghost, as per your decision., but an obstacle to your pet obsession nonetheless. We need to pass this on to your holder. We're not referring to former Attorney General Eric Holder, just so you know.


I'll drive by later. Then I'll sell the gun to a Mormon teenager. It should go more smoothly after that. But the name we give to a harmless, if well taken, route, is roundly scorned for all to hear. And hear they won't, but, here they will. Will what? Will cause a sultry provocation at Office Center and then de-camp  to a forest stronghold of the first order. 


The defrocked pastor I told you about during last year's killer snowstorm has hung himself out to dry with the best of them. But it's only the worst of them who're buying it, I'm afraid. Which is why my pleas for a permanent brown-out go unheard. It's a grift pure and simple. But the sneers of a crowd bring with them a certain evocative nonchalance relative to my paltry effort on Fashion Thursday. 

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Keeping Pace With Bees.

The third and final flupe, if we dare to even call it that, will always seem to us a mild brace during which to engage a sensitive bolver. The aspiring bolver, in one way or another, seeks to limit the tiresome recitation of names as a forest-ghosting nodule of ontic performative whist. Sometimes, at least ..... (relax your forehead).


Just to give an idea to sclerotic parsons while they dream in locations of high combat, behooves a random crane operator to sell his position for a rank of bees. The brain in trouble will often perceive microscopic dolts zipping through a routine, tragic outcome, as to before, in our file-shaking night skin.



Rustic atmospheres compete with non-dual urgumonds to becalm a spastic wasser with vim, not to say a formative slendering amplet. Which is why the speed of tonal fragure seems to derm the plantid dondure of wet, turgid masterstrokes. 

To a growing friend: you need to separate a doomed formerly caustic plaything from any disappearing high-fire pact. It will allow you to check the temperature with a lesser hand tucked safely through a stately window fart at distance. 


Why should any of this surprise the meekest of our number is an openly heated guest notch, as skills to a notch are my proxy for cheating the tell for a drain of weight. You see, it's a virtual braiding, a free-fall in fact, to be able to absorb the resolutely mordant apostasy in barely the time it takes to trim huff-bastets from the nascent God-consciousness as just another rasping, occluded trick.


Survival is (still) not assured. Pace with bees. You're fired. 

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The Not Untrue Fable of Jules and Saggy.

Jules and Saggy wear similar smiles but for different reasons. For Jules it's a simple matter of arithmetic. Saggy looks the part but keeps fretting that a single wrong move will throw everything off into doubt. For Saggy as well there's almost an unwritten rule that shreds conventions at a withering pace. The election of Herman Duncan was supposed to offer the beginning of a chance of relief. My own plan will involve what turns out to be soldiers playacting in a sanitized field. The chirrups, though, are real. Real enough anyway to encourage boldness in money management.

Might I suggest you hold on to that subverted envelope in a starkly precise manner? What do you call an improvised TV cake that nonetheless shields a Princess from her bad choices? You call it a meadow, silly. Hasn't anyone taken you to a dance before? Before this, I mean.


What some people call this is a negated LARPing particle. What I call this you don't want to know. It's a risk to young people with obvious overbites. They will have to take their advantages where they find them. Near a young elm tree, perhaps? You have my word. It won't disapurnt the foddowers of a nifacent ribition.


I won't be finished until this rare bird I'm working on is given a practical offshoot. The 'chain of decay' is merely a wuterful case of zand to opper a sill. And still it rankles. We've advanced now to a level nearly equal to the oblivious wippon-as-parge. Jolly slundering E-seers greet their apparitions with what passes for a gristled fatigue. The only mother (not mine) who I pledged to ignore has perforned a valualble function where underperforming side tasks are concerned. The only valid response at this time is "We'll see ...". 

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The Coats That Were For Our Own Good.

We were told that the coats we wore at a traditional time of year were for our own good. They were said to aid in swallowing disreputable items from the commissary. Our notion of 'a joke' was severely tested. But we played along as always.


If one was ready, then a second one was said to be in play. The joke turned sour in my drooping mouth. If anyone noticed, I couldn't tell. I will never tell. Who is my benefactor? A likely person made a brief appearance at the end of Fourth Form. This will not delay a thing. Where coldness never lives in a tawdry episode, the flat passion for muggery may assure the increasing value of assent.



No matter. What is it that will stake a ring on a borderline soldier's corpse?

The friends I've made here are dedicated to a comfortable way of living. They have a way of molding experience to make unforeseen outcomes less displeasing. The gem I've hidden will stay with me for at least fourteen years. But I didn't know that then. I couldn't have even if I tried. I resolved swiftly to never try. Why risk my bones?

Damn the people who won't win an award! Even if they saunter, an invisible line is breached but wetness will be presented as if for the first time. This will fool no one.


It's said to be a type of 'stepping stone'. A true skeptic, if one were even present, would struggle to mount a last ditch jihad to preserve the possibility of a respectable outcome. Flame retardant is awesome. Fletcher Goodrone is not my name. 


But we can only repair foreign objects that are displeasing to persons with injuries of the softer ear. The general bafflement is tantamount overdoing it in the transition department. Our day in the sun is to be scolded as to a barge of harps.


It's a blast to scope out details in the light of basin lamps. The frightened supervisors we counted on for petty cash have left a traditionally architected structure. It stands to 'not go well'. We can't tell if it's oxygen or hydrogen. There is no smell.

A jury will hear the rest. A textual analysis will ensue. Grave robbing is a thing of the putrid past. A pastor has dared us to fight a trend toward microscopic denial. My friend Bill is years behind but ever cheerful even when he's most distant. I'm looking to buy a Superfund Site. My parents don't seem to care. Will you bring me a bottle of Yoohoo? Saddle up. I'm buying.



But our plan is to put up with a pattern of inconsistency to achieve a Prelude to a Dream. Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker wrote that song. Bet you didn't know that!


Could this thing be the start of a trend? Like in Alphabet City maybe? 

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Sonic Reparative Justice Update:

Allahu Akbar!

If so, then I'll know. If not, there will be no telling. 

Over, but not above, of this much we can be sure. 

The stated 'capital P' place, not for nothing, is said to 

be within an easy reach. Easy, that is, for those who 

are considered to have 'made the grade', if not 'the' 

grade, then maybe just 'a' grade. We leave so much 

unsaid in an effort to save our remaining breaths. But 

the precious time left could be all that stands between 

us and that which we have trouble coming to terms with. 

It's all anyone can talk about, and yet nothing is ever said. 

How could this be?

A plan is drafted in a single night, in less than ten minutes in fact. Nothing is written down, so maybe 'drafted' isn't the right word. It's only one sentence long. But since there is no punctuation of any kind maybe 'sentence' isn't the right word either. There's one detail that's still reasonably vague. I say 'reasonably' because too many specifics could interfere with our innate spontaneity. This would not be helpful. Each of the Jasters insists on being helpful. I count myself among them. This is not going to be easy. Nothing of value ever is. But the pain of trust is a balm to the bomb of truth. Those who find themselves excluded will be lambs of the final ordering. And the blame will trigger the start of a serious lack of journeying.

We're fairly certain that a breaking point is in the offing. The slightest 'tell' could act as the garment of a shameful wind. A barely judicious account of these events is all that we've ever hoped for, as against so, then, inside. What will hamper is a no-solution solution. Why any brink will allow falling, no living person has yet been told. Those who could tell are lost. As in, the location in which they find themselves is unknown outside of a small circle of apparently ordinary occupants. They're only identifiable by their preferences in personal hygiene products which have how been banned. So you see, we're kind of 'up a creek' as it were. 

The person we look to for even the most minimal direction has been asleep for, what, six days at least? His wife has been detained at a major airport. Unfortunately, by now everyone has forgotten the meaning (if there ever was one) of the word 'airport'. This is due to a mysterious toxin that started appearing in our food not less than six months ago. Well, again, 'appearing' is the wrong word (sorry). Not only did this toxin have no appearance, it had no taste or smell either. How did we know then? It was written in a book that was destroyed in a coal mine explosion in West Virginia in late 2014.

If anyone who may one day read this has any doubt as to the veracity of the above account, then plainly that individual may not be someone we can 'do business with' as common vernacular has it.

Allahu Akbar!

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