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e_o_i and raze in person for a limited time
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"Je ne mange pas l'autobus," the cab driver said to me.
(he neglected to mention the type of bus he did not eat. school bus? public bus? private bus? shut-in bus?)
I just nodded and stared out the window. The fields of wheat were growing tentacles, a side effect of climate change.
(it's like i always say: who needs drugs when you've got global warming?)
("it's a global WARNING," lisps al gore.)
(the central air in my mind did that thing, that vent-rattling thing, and the sound was unnerving. but at least i was cool.)
"Je ne mange pas l'autobus, mais je vais manger mes doigts," I thought as I exited the taxi. I liked how the words "exited" and "taxi" sounded good together, like cymbals and symbiotic relationships among animals.
(someone made an album once called "love among the cannibals". it was either jefferson starship or charlie parker. or maybe some avant-garde trash man from paraguay. who can say? who can know?)
Karlheinz Stockhausen once said, "I'm the bomb. But not, like, the literal bomb. I'm the greatest work of art since sliced bread."
(stockhausen was the original kanye, you see. he would have allowed you to finish, but … nah.)
Satan had the best sliced bread of all time.
(jesus wept and said, "oh, father, what am i to do?" and jesus sr. said, "hey, don't ask me. i'm watching some reality show about lice. you need to think for yourself, son." family. that's what it's all about.)
I took a handful of wheat. It was already cooked. I think John Milton and Jeanette Winterson were singing in heaven, even though Winterson wasn't dead yet. Apples and oranges, you know.
(answer a question with a question and the whole truth is revealed. well, 8/9ths of the truth. close enough for horses and bible salesmen, no?)
Are you going to evolve already, angels?
(we're just waiting for our next lives to start.)
I think they're here in the sand. Sand is baby glass.
(the flowers get so angry. fall can't come soon enough. hush their harrowing hearts, blush the little ones.)
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