Laughing at the paradigm of elephants, my throbbing kneecaps speak of the pain and suffering of the great angels we have heard on high. No more time for this sacred pretence of dreams, the latter-day thrombosis is felled with two strokes of the upside-down cake. Pelicans on patrol keep watch on a quiet city, though troubles have been known to eclipse both sun and moon in the before times, in the bad times. Latest news from the front leaves no doubt. We must all be ready to stand and defend our freedoms or the enemy within will consume us in her sweet, oh, so sweet madness.
Later the time started setting back two principles upon which we can all agree. This place is a shambles. No parking tickets can ever make up for the joy left unlived behind the clover on the soul patch of the giant goddess who rises from the oatmeal in the morning. No doubt that’s the way she intended it. All powers and praises to the stations of the cross. If any man here has left undone business before him, let him speak now of the ocelot’s ramblings in the city of the dead.
For time will spin backwards until the eterminty of silences bows down at her feet like an octoroon gamboling before the pool hall, though neither pool nor halls frequent this quaint little village as they did formerly. A fishing expedition with dynamite and the repressed dreams of salmon falls by the wayside as our guide seeks some semblance of dreaming stumps from the blasted land before us. In the distance, small gunfire craters disturb the pastoral beauty of the scene only with their unblinking gaze and the severed limbs of professionals who no longer practice their craft. The pronoun is rather late to the game, finding its way into the otherwise sound processes which have been hallowed since time immemorial, though those, too, are not so seeming as once they were before the breakfast of the gods on the day Valhalla rose and declared itself sleepy from the constant bickering of travel. No suitcases before them, they plunge mightily into the abyss of savings, never to return, at least not in this timeline.
We suffer less and less well than our ancestors, distanced from both the pangs of regrets and the red time of mother’s hemorrhage. The seascape littered with floating corpses of fish and porpoises leave us hollow, though only a fragment remains of the song sung at our birth by the great sky and the dark night that swaddled us into this mangy world of depression, recession, and desperation. Later on, things got solid again, but the change had come and no time was left to recapitulate the somber madness of the initial spark of joy and meaning that ushered us into this plane. We slowly make our way back to the car, happy to be once again on solid ground, though our moral convictions strain against this oh so golden lariat. Justice? Nay, say rather that a band of black-haloed angels went out into the night to wreak vengeance for the epistles left unread and the roads not taken, though it seems they lost their way mush as I do. No answer cries out through the night, though the ravening dog’s spittle bespecks the landscape of the lonely moors, we find no parallel tracks to assay in the undying, unwinking night. If ever there were to be a search for missing children, this valley has claimed them all, named them all, and no more account can be had of leftover spunk and sweat besides the lazy creatures which feed on the charcoal bricks of former souls left for dead by the highway. It may be that their remains are a lost chance, or a chance meeting in the parting ways of sunshine and night. Will it ever burn as blackly as that morn when the sun stood green before the world and he turned to you and spoke the magic words you so longed to hear, words which now you cannot remember, even at the cost of your immortal soul?