echelon paste! Garcia Echelon ships the wave In the beginning, there was stuttering. Garcia Echelon dismounts from his unicycle and tackles a running thief, with minimal elegance. “You, stop!” he says to the moth. Next month, Garcia has it out for the produce department. He is reminded of decapitation. Lettuce rolls around at his feet, stalks of asparagus emerge from his sleeves as if he were some misplaced scarecrow which tears him up, so Garcia Echelon steps on a certain tile and begins to slowly disperse into separate body parts, each gathered together by an indoor draft that could only come from the whisperers of his choosing. When all is said and done Garcia is round up in a duffle bag and shipped to Australia where he reassembles and combs the beaches for lost artifacts of the poor and bewildered. In no time he has many followers. “Today we will collect sandal straps of centuries ago,” he shouts. And so begins the rummaging. When they all converge upon the section of the beach marked PESCADO MALO they flee in terror, throw their arms to the clouds and scatter equidistant from each other in a half-arc, like each path was the fold of a stretched out Chinese fan in the ominous typhoon and the rice was breaking and the children were not yet full of red in their eyes. Garcia shrugs and packs a mean squirt gun to spray at the resemblances of self-witchcraft. Pow splash churgle pow the streams holler. Even though Garcia is in his fifties he has the heart of a 6-year old or a 24-hour locksmith. 030318 ... paste! Garcia Echelon chews kaleidoscopic barks When Garcia Echelon buys scotch tape, he buys it in 10 packs. The ferns are unifying against me, he thinks. This time there will be no struggle on my part, they can have me launching his feet back onto the ottoman. He sips from his bucket of water. The bucket (decorated with gold spikes and inset with hundreds of diamonds and jewels from 71 different countries, some gems certified with exhaustively documented histories, are willowing in the design of centaurs eating watermelon and pad thai) is made of cheap tin. It’s another lazy afternoon. Garcia mumbles into a megaphone that he has mounted onto his brontosaur skeleton in the backyard desert. He has strapped the skeleton with a leather saddle that he treated to look like dinosaur leather. Oh, but that’s impossible, says a voice, we don’t know what dinosaur leather looks like. We don’t know a lot of things, replies Garcia we can only trust the overlap of our nightmares with the arcs of the natural, like falling petals drifting crazily from the hands of lovely pedestrians or the way that a convex reflection of a landscape of saguaro cacti spattered with blood in the dented and overturned 18-wheel gas tanker seems more real than you and I both. Garcia then rides off into the pickled ginger sunset through a wooden gate. The brontosaur skeleton has been fitted with knobbies for some serious Xtreme off-roading! 030318 ... paste! Garcia Echelon and the sure thing Garcia Echelon anonymously visits a funeral in Iceland and when they lay the dead woman down to rest he releases a stork from his mouth because he confused metaphors. Still, his condolence stomps on his clumsiness, mammothly, awkward as that seems. Yet still, he is wearing black, at least. Still, the trees that stand in witness over the whole scene are shaking their heads, so many leaves fall and some come to rest on the casket and the contrast of robust roses with broken brown hopeful leaves is somewhat of a reminder of the way in which she managed her life before she crashed her submarine into a helicopter… Well that’s what it said, Garcia thinks to himself. He has no idea of his Icelandic. It’s a tough language, even in the newspapers, even with impossibly beautiful photographs. 030318 what's it to you? who go blather from