The Story Of Watergourd Bacon And His Quest For A Single Second
What Ebenezer Told Me Afterward
Skunks are here, living, breathing, like carps
tossed by the red hot-bucket into wind tunnels. Is that what you were asking?
Was the Pope or other like-minded ecclesiastical authority, small red leather
disk noggin-top, three sheets to the wind on an arc of hand sugar? Or was that
absolute boggle-de-terre, sil-vous-plait? Mais oui de er ikke mye venn du weißt
worüber ich spreche aunque, yo tomo la gracia de las tiendas en los ojos:
Skippy comes, he is pure fire. His speak is the green stink of ice. His lips
are the split weiners you long for on a camp-out or at a ball game or alone
in the bathroom at parents' friends houses where all the extraterrestrials lodge
in your crawfish raquet. Campfire skeleton sillouhetted in the sinking bulb
of sun going down dirt-wise harpies in the lectern. His lungs popped out like
a slippery balloon. Whack me with a capstan. Launch bark seldom seems so tranqualizer
freedom. Know what I mean? OK. So. One mendicant and another Medici sprung from
bedpans like a narcolept's ashtray, the golden honk of a May Day parade flourishing
like Granddad's hipbone in the apoplectic and apocalyptic Sturdevant.
You scalliwag! I know your delicious silver-papered
buns are stuck to the roof of my mouth and it takes lice for a walk on the salty
pier. Television is so sucky except for the electronic snow-storm of the Macy's
Day Parade. Probiscus of rubber, seize my swollen snorkle and rise godward!
Latex sparking globe of extracurricular activity. p! Sneaky aren't you, you
little devils? Come Ô or come shiny nickel, come elbow's flying lazily like
geese, and come (c), I will always be the way you walk when your skin is talking
to the Wiz. Wise men are recognizable because hot lean freaks are dancing beside
my weeping Proctor and Gambles, beside my beans. Wizened old men gobbling like
turkeys, it is so shameful, for a few naughty dark logs in wax paper. Help us
throb like oxen. Help me throb like oxen. Soiled oven mitt. Water-stained wall
paper. Bathtubs torn out and tossed into the stairwell. There are a conglomerate
of them. The smell of dookey. The hum of blue-bottles. The building has been
condemned by the Supervisor, 88.14/the square root of Stockton, California.
The Pocket Doctor can help you, why, it soothes burnt glove compartments and
trots out gorilla-juice on cue. Stick it brother in the fixture which waits
like a panther in the salt cellar. It's easy to remember Lot's wife at the Apollo
butt-humping the regulator with its shiny chrome and yellowish tubes. The way
in Autumn the tree's burnt carcass is a fine salver for the cake of the expiring
sun? Belt-buckle pudding with the legs all in it? Sampled pry-bar quit his night
job, luxus, luxurious Luxor on the cabbage-colored stomping grounds of the lights
of the ancient city in the air like the oil spot on the asphalt. To rub it I
mean, that feeling. Locus dei: funny laxatives get the ketchup all over. Mealtime
in Alcatraz. That is the dark bumpy, the dark bunny rabbit of the soul; sold
to do brinkmanship double duty. The sloppy liquid pop of a cork. The sound of
sucking. The void. "What happended to my lunch ticket?"
A ski mask made of slices of smoked ham was all
in for the grave marker made of gray vasoline, margarine, urethane or maybe
cork and small marble from the smoldering wicket of green, soaking Spain, where
the middle-ground is unstable on an atomic level. The breaching of a cracker
makes crumbcake out of us all. Spoken like a true belt sander, gleaming weasel,
carpet faggot, carport gerrimandering linch-pin. Fucker? Sadder than 40,000
pounds of crumpled shine whistling silently through the air and it's there,
in mid-air, between Heaven and Earth where noone is but me (falling like a parachutist
non parleil), Watergourd Bacon, leaning in, cocking one ear, putting it real
close, hearing the noises it makes when Shih-huang Ti bakes tacks into the translucent
but slightly spit-moistened and hence sticky cough lozenge. It goes like this:
Pocketypocketypocketypockety PING! drink, pocketypocketypocketypockety PROVERB
SAUSAGE! I rely on the broken bones of a rabbit for entertainment (I watch it
like TV): rattlebag.
Alka-Seltzer's Made Of Feathers:
Dirty Codfish With The Human Face Mystery
Alka Helter Skelter Seltzer
Ichabod Petrone rode lizards for carport socks
into the Great Duct Tape, a menagerie of lamps and mitochondria. Ach, blarney
in a Sasquatch, he thought, I'm rectifying the annual budgie, its little yellow
scintilla vanquishing with the arousal of the moon pie. Later than that the
therapeutic lustre of the brimstone began to wear off, leaving nothing in its
wake but petroleum jelly and the still-smoking carcasses of sea monkeys or prawns.
Make-believe bathwater accosted him in the hall closet where wicker was kept
for killing bees. Smeller of dried fish where the wickets were pulled out and
tossed into the grape-coloured gas bag of the ocean? Where the prattle pooled
up? Marichino La Blueprints remained out from behind the pole of bruised blue
smoke, polishing a Polish sausage freezer-burnt remnant. She smiled. Lax behind,
poled Ichabod himself, his enormous unusual hand pulsing in the purple light,
with silvery highlights. The Martian took no right turn when available was left
soaking in an old time brine vat. Only where the sprinkled murk folds and leaves
us wide awake in the brimming vault, do I yield to the treat, to the threat
or tread of deadly forts, forests, whatever. Read me loud and clear. He poured
her corset. Mount Aetna? He rolled in the stinging. They lucked out frolicking
for Portugal in one clean tube that ran half-way to translucent fishing line,
a big ball, knotted and blue-green, a mean spray in the watered lime. And they
were happy there.
Upscale on a dandelion, a bun-cracking pin cushion
of fingernails was flapping like a yellow sail. Snapping like a great, grey
cloud of clock-iron or tire. A stripe of purple came in it. Gavel-brown syrup
on tenterhooks gave them both gauze to try on in place of dying and the West
or chewing on jewelry. Suddenly the glass walls broke together, pieces bursting
like the wind on a crepe or a rain of beads. Summary glances provoked the obvious,
the what-already-nuts of the butter packets: borax clusters in the Nile. They
sank shoulders into the liquid frocks. Limpid wands of oven mitts swamped with
crusty bacon launched out of a thermos. The launched organism was caught in
the crease of a crooked capstan. Oregano, olives, organs, Oregon, original...perhaps
yaks or...what? Narraganset? Wart! Wart! he crawled on her over the clank of
cartwheels, the rang-out dye from a brand new scarf. Banks curried favors from
the syllogisms and/or escarpments they carted off the loading dock.
Nutmegs in tan sacks smelling dusty and yet fragrant,
thick silver salvers having on them shot-heaps of coriander, (a bamboo pocket-watch
ticking off seconds, i.e. time was existing), a mound of paprika like rust scraped
from a World War II Jeep, cinnamon hill on blue silk, pulling the sky down,
the sun like a center-piece slowly scooting, too. Slowness after slowness and
then-a smattering! A cut-glass bowl full of leghorns, lillies, and light, breaking
on the rough skin of the dryed and hardened concrete. In Egypt it followed by
xylophone cracking. That's what every morpheme looks locked down on.
Planks Of Dirt
Clustered like salmon eggs around the blue fire of a platicized pamphlet, the
crooks feed you a dark platter and treat you to a boiling hot cup of black water
that smells like pepper but tastes bitter as unripe almonds mixed with salt
and the rubber off a basketball. Waking up into the dirt, sparkling, acqueous,
cool and refreshing as a broken pencil stub in a bowling alley. Bandsaws treacle
lemonade. The park tablets dissolve in wooden water, in a tank, dissolve the
tank, dissolve the water itself. Copper tubing. Tugboats. Nor causes nibbling
to be a disease that eats into watertanks pink with crayfish setting suns on
golf tees, glistening and moistened where the gigantic lollipops spin circles
into the digging of dark dirt scents: make me a good sauce from it. Dirt is
not dirt if it comes from stinking chaps. The Rancid pay their bar tabs, their
barbers, Babar, Berbers and Lincoln Savage Junior Horny Toad with leather coins
that reek of madness. Make me a lanky sauce that is hard and flat like a board,
neither plank nor cardboard. That being said, red paint symbolizes the you reading
as being hung upside down by a an "Algerian named Raoul." He is whacking you
mercilessly and mercifully on the pincushion bank of a river of galvanized nuts
that wrinkle by like insects. With a flyswatter, that is. Rolling upward into
the unnatural green of the upside-down sky river, your glass-bottom boat lets
go of the lettuce, fresh, crisp, slightly white like the snow or like the down
in your inside-out jacket. Skis whiz by nothing but textiles. "Nord Tinkus."
Nordoun Sihanouk hung his own: gravity bells of the moon's silver in the bamboo
eaves on next to nothing left but his own knowing. Convenient. The King's favorite
show, pre-empted. Consisting of mathematics.
Birdsong is a clock that is hung in the dark stain
of a clown's shadow.
The Duckling Pump
Barbeque A. Gravytrain touched down at LAX on
the last flight that night from Valladolid, the Cid in his lip-smackin' satchel
hung hip-high to three turkeys in the morning. Or in the water. The rigamorole
was de rigeur all the way to Alaska. Cracking open some trace elements in the
asphalt bar, a Milanese acrobat with a dumbek accosted a winking knot with some
highway yogurt and a hot pickled okra spear. Coulda been asparus, coulda been
spareribs. Fact was, it was an okra spear: hot, pickled, plain as day, plain
as the nose on your face, as the rose sprouting on your washbasin, as your ration
of melting crockery, bacon rashers. (Little did he know, a cachet of razor blades
made crocheted caseroles into owls, crunchy as hash with age in the bathrooms
of rank tenements, closet doors chattering with the seed pods of moving counter-clockwise,
hippy bead-thick, shuttering all the horror in, malign. "I'm talking about cockroaches
here!" he used to shout, red in the face as a breadstick, broken underfoot on
green indoor-outdoor, found after the banquet by a ferocious Sacre Coeuer-carrying
waitperson and swept under the parquet.)
Barclay approached the bench, carrying an armadillo
as round and piquant as an after-hours oyster stewing in its own long juices.
Hello car key, he said gravel voice verb mallet of Australian make. Minute Maid,
he whispered sanctimoniously, regurgitating an olive and a copy of the New York
Review of Books, ending a centuries-old doctrinal dispute in Mahayan Buddhism,
a colloquy of matchbook covers, Crisco, Daktari and Mildred-ointment. Sacre
Bleu! squealed the microscopic Turk from his apartment in the Tivoli. Herbs
were in the mixture. How savory that made Ta-ta's cooking. I especially remember,
and value the memory of, a steak, somewhat brown and purpling, of course, with
those pieces of herb on top like pine needles and burst pants fragments.
In the shadow of the doorway of the poverty-stricken,
19th century Irish potato famine shack of burnt dirt and weeds, a mattock had
been leaned against the jam and it glowered in the rambunctious lighthouse of
the copper kettle held hodge-podge lickety-split doodad of its bunkhouse being.
In other words it was weird as hell and I burped afterward, burped out facts
in the form of words which flew up, arcing, down little white bit rice-like
tic at the foot of Hostess Cupcakes sweating in the heat I photographed in the
nostalgizing armature of the hot dust of the luxurious leaded and sugary window
pane, somewhat Edwardian. At that very mole man a renovation was taking place
in the little armored noggin underfoot. The judge broke fruit working a calypso
oven on raining forks. Hot as a spark plug crafted limb from limb in Afganistan.
The Cid turned all gassy and got sucked out the duct. Bummer.
Everyone went home logically and devolved into
constituents of rock salt, farts, and ceiling fans. Except one lark weeping
in a bush a badger caught and made into a hat for his wife. The catalogue kept
up his rollerskating, borrowed from a Brooklyn firm that specialized in feces
and waterpumps for idiot fat farmers in Delacroix paintings hung in bathrooms
at referal conglomerates heaving boxes big as truck beds into the stuffy waters
of the marshy acreage out back. Bisquick too, big blue boxes of the stuff. Suffer
the stuffing to ladybugs with eyelashes. The shimmering bank of spark gun hammers.
The Nylon Codex, tricyled from Katmandu by some bank executive, was in part
a referendum and enabled him, or so the story goes, to gather from an index,
handy as hell, the names, practical and otherwise, of stuff.
This whole thing was the color of saffron and
yellow and rank as broken manzanita trinkets and rinky-dink as the call of mulberry
bushes bruising the sex act with maniac, grey-purple aroma. Finger. Rocketship.
Laxative. St. Thomas Aquinas. Aquafresh. Crack. Ibd Saludan, the 14th century
Arabic traveller. Central Asian crapshoot. Pocket aptitude test failing the
shingle mark of the proctor. O, Sardinia...!
A Clear Powerful Gel With Deep Cleaning Action
A pickle jar. The pickle jar is sitting on the
rubbered wire of the shelf in the refrigerator. Other jars-mayonaisse, applesauce,
etc.-cluster about. It is dark and cold. A sudden, rubbery suck and-voilá-hard
light floods the fragrant chamber. In a length of time no longer than the duration
of two fingers snapping, the chamber becomes blazing hot and equatorially humid.
The label falls off with no greater resistance than and as quickly from the
glassy face of the pickle jar as a piece of paper falling from a desk. The other
labels follow until, from below, the refrigerator looks like a tropical rainforest,
all the leaves falling and the monkey-streudel bats wrinkled stink in visible
waves and silvery batteries clacking like castanets fashioned from cardboard
and shiny tin in the architecturally significant Chartres Cathedral. Cracker
traps like brill whale brush membrane or fibrous bristles.
Tatoos made of corn flakes flourish in the soap-bar-soft
glowing butter of the trumpet's gold cylinder (small scratches and nail-gouges,
tobacco-dark of having been used and age, time rolling through the flared lip
of the horn). The Caspian Sea heaved in the plum-coloured darkeness beneath
the bluish moon, heaved, smacked open a huge cartoon screen prickling and snapping
with white electricity. Turks go wild, screeching, banging coat hangers on wheels
of cheese, bursting out of yurt flaps on loud little motorbikes with the sound
of over-throttled chainsaws. One migratory tribesman in particular, Yünguulükkyuküü
Roberts-Clark, tight, embroideredskull-cap and trousers scintillating in the
nightlife cracked seed-casings on the sidewalk with a transparent uncoloured
glass base from a broken lamp. Whose fault is that? Self-recriminations colour
the bottles on the shelf behind the bar below the leaded mirror by creating
liquids in them, like a reddish orange or an aquamarine and many more like that
goldy color tracked under the ramp-polled sky-parrots and diced raw potatoes
crunching a stage-Hamlet on teryaki clung spiral harpoon corks popping in the
diamant nightlight. Oh, bright darkness smoking! Oh, diacritical marks pulling
on the drunken phone cords and the bells ringing. Huge iron bells hang in belfries
above hallucinogenic clerics with night-blindness having visions of angels who
exist and yet do not, especially neither in the bell, hanging heavier than a
melting tractor, nor at Burger King crowned in paper. The tiny decorative white
rocks that sparkle in ashtrays outside of great black towers of glass that are
falling all over like hail, but as big as trains-bigger: big as mountains. CRASH!
CRASH CRASH! Tinkle...Those sparkly rocks pour out with sand into small heaps
of winking chaff. Small but intricately constructed helicopters had been ferrying
lynx-headed executives around the placemat when heat-cloistered rabbits lucked
out of the blackened crust.
A ruckus broke out all over the three old guys
from the West Indies who in frayed straw hats crouched in front of the store
with root-poppers thumbing soiled playing cards. The ruckus was a chemical riot
near the chewed cola nuts in their mouths. The firefly in the darkened kitchen
at the cutting board wheeled around in surprise. Heh-heh, he laughed nervously,
uh...I... thought this was Vasco de Gama International Fritos Target Practice.
Heh-heh. Noone was buying this space-age plaster casting of a gringo's gargle-sauce.
They were wearing delicate suits fashioned from fascience beads. I mean they
were wearing all-glass suits. Guava, gel, whatever. Their hair burst.
Wretched gadgets fumbled out of gunnysacks into
the curry-yellow, fishtank-stained wind. Ratcheting back the chocolates into
catalogues of gum, my aiming, brainy retro-lozenge exploded into an oxygenated
hotpants spitting Hotwheel-fire into six or seven hairy lembics, who, arcing
hard sugar acrostics, poodled up the drainpipe into actual.
Mexican robots knew what the deal was, which is
why they ate crime into teapots on lunch-buckling duotrons. Scream while I work
this spank-post loose from its calcium doodad spot-gobbler. Easy, Nixon...That's
it. Microphonic hair-doos crafted from nickel cadmium bush-beater axehandle
notations-fromage-3, treats this zinc oxide flurocarbon to stink on an eight-way
eggbeater, six wide days out from the sun. Squint and hose out the gravy boat.
Crotch-chocolates from Colonel Fucknugget and
the spank of urine on the floorboards ended the program
MORDLKJFDSLKFTALESoff proper jocThe Friar Of Ben Gay
How I Gobbled Out The Kreskin-Bucket
I barked at the flambé and my lungs filled
up with science fiction as that shapely anus twinkled in the night sky, fluctuating
with the tapioca of stringing latitude strongly into Crimea on a warm summer
vegetable platter. Who's calling? Alembic turnip crunching bits like egg shell
or kitty litter into the fling-fling? Or maybe Filament Rotweiler dumpling about
the rectilinear leaf magnet flypaper. Bell curdled the razor blade feeling rather
escarpment in one or two magical nut crockets while empty bins hummed unrelenting
oyster sausages for the mayor and his vice-admiral in charge of hunting down
yummy hound dog savior paste in the wickiup every nodding off to sleep in the
seventy mile an hour vandal strichnine. This did not occur so much as occult
meringues flew out of seven ups on the quality time revlon kindling wagon careening,
OK, more like walloped me antipasto or before during and after the inaugural
I okey-dokeyed my walleye into the hamper. The Friar of Ben Gay rollerbladed
clean into the great out of dormitory laundry shute fork for my crazy, oh my
god my eye ball all rolly around on the carpet-finger daddy humping the crocks
for a living.
Crawl with me now, Rutger, you and Filament, while
scarfing down a beaker of Orangina to the rhythm of a sputtering shark meat
jerky tossing its timing belt into the carport. The smelt of German shepard
urine soaked into the month-long carpet cleaner by the linament tube, mostly
squeezed and slightly rusty, one yellowish earwig carcass dancing the squealing
ducat across crushed toaster limbo. Dance like peanuts into the eye of the cosmic
sturgeon my lederhosen of glockenspiel. Freak out, for soon the sun sinks into
its turkey-lerkey tofurkey murky husky hulking Brutus of the swollen ditty I
am humming your pants off of through using. Clever, huh? Me with my crypto-Nantucket
algebra of taragon and vinegar in a rubber hat that slices off your fluctuating
scrub bump and ricochets it off proper jocularity.
Let's disect the hairspray. Trebizond or Hermes
Trismegistus, you pre-shrink the corn tubing to the dismay of lanky Flán
Iliescu, cornerstone of the smoked turgid lipstick fakir Lemonade Al-Farouk
sunk deeply into the snack paddle tricky the frisking nark. Hail to the monkey
business which you can see from the outcropping of pure chilly grapes or get
in close and you can see it real good amid the frankenstein donut sprinkling
of the Hugenot. On the terrace above the sparkling littoral the ingenue and
the headless freak ate cigarettes and urinated into the effervenscent cupola
of the chart busters. Leeks with faces on them ran into the backs of their own
knees catapulting themselves off of the rut mutton panelist whom is always seeking
the ratatouille of our crepuscular heart popped out of the tray case. Perfect.
Scatter the seed in a white architecture of speaking as the squeaking office
chair circa the phlebotomist's corpulent traces of backward pants fragments
plastered behind the masking tape while I was smoking crack for you my Pope.
Lacy and hell-bent for bootstrap monkey-larva
the lavender do-hickey ran riot onto the blue-bottle booby-trap of Pinky McGurk,
Indian, population notably absent due to the wind-tunnel practicum correlating
the crisp rat-trap bunkers into the hatful of notions the secretary sent to
be remaindered into influences.
Pincher-boy solipsistically rendering the cardboard
crater-trays into pink and yellow. Peepee Ladypants ran the grinder to the delight
of the hopping scratchers and french-fries in leather pants that came in there
to stir up some labrador receiver in the stew they constantly produced in their
pants. Just like them critter-nurturers, the percolators exclaimed reaching
for their crullers, sticky with filth, biting off a mouthful of cloroflourocarbons
and soda-foam, rolling all around in the mentholated seabreeze, conundrums hanky-pankying
the yard-arm to leprechauns at the doughnut pit. Cardboard cut-outs upright
in the dorm room get all the jolly tractor-freaks into a non-stop gag and sputter
of adolescent door-knob hole-peekers breaking into show business from the top
of the parking structure. Pinky paused, jerking his head out'n his ass. This
might Martian me, scratching his foot on the shag rug and peeing into the rising
night wind, a lark of sweet golden liquid into the dark troglodyte of the afternoon's
negative, flat and chemically flavoured.
Ratting out the skeletons in the ice-box, Norad
Radon, Lt. Commander of the Fourth Wing of the Rectilinear Budgie, saluted his
reflection in a hubcab and asked the gravel where his hat was. That was right
before the teeth came. The rushing of wind and the giant mallet. Later, a sky
full of coins. Pinky reappeared mysteriously with a bottle of gold wire and
The 3-D Golf Course convinced Norad that he was
the hostess and sat itself down in vinyl begging for placards. His smile lit
up the funeral parlors and he ran into the streets with a sign advertising women
in rewarding positions of meat processing and great huge bottles of grenadine.
The 3-D Golf Course shrank him with a micro-ray and set back facts of representational
race-horses behind the sauce of hours where the Micronauts knocked his portrait
off the mantle and made lunchmeat of the taut Norwegian seas. There, boiling
with smelt, lambent nature documentaries flickered on the walls like 9-0-9-0-9-0
into the mountains above the Rio Grande river south of Taos, New Mexico in the
year of our Lord eighteen-hundred-and-fifty-four.
After that Pinky rammed a wig up his ass, closed
up shop, boarded prime numbers and made jerky out of the stars. Norad and the
3-D Golf Course held hands into the Jonas Salk twilight of cucumbers and weeping.
The sock-puppet of the night rearranged the rigid kernels in the dank box where
the hands were and 40 birthdays full of soiled onions fed pages of the phone
book into the back of a fan.