Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Writerly expressions with a big cursive bow on top of my head and music, softy playing while I casually massage a customer's shoulders and look up to see another come though the bell, a field of haze blowing my unholy mind into pieces: "Do you sell willful realizations?" and yes of course I jump up and destroy the distance between us, a thick gravy instead of legs transcending the space of a wallet's breath I show them a wall full of wrenches and screw drivers and tuck back into privacy to avoid saying "um" in between every breath and thought.

The customer wanes and I repeat myself in service, becoming the willow tree by the crystal river as a landmark of availability my watch says we're open for thirty more years and shoot lasers into the customer's Hepatitis B saddled liver or so I tell my doctor who doesn't believe me because I seem too "nice" to have dirty drug problems, but anyway, I lead them into the back room, cut off their hands and smear paint on their face and they thank me and I pocket a cool stack of appreciation notes.

Lunch time: everybody's favorite state of mind the realized swim about, I breakfast table the ambiance of a cat calling Wilco, the milk toast leprechaun, Chani, or other characters in Dune come through the doors slowly one by one and sign in rainbow script the will to turn mean evaporates and it's give give give with the corporate self consciousness, the "Indiana" of preventative measures the Anne Bancroft of hilarious stock room follies walks in and I practically give away pairs of jeans that fit perfectly a diamond 'x' pattern on the back pocket and a little hole on the waist band to signify an incredible style in tune with the very buttons on your shirt

because this is energy leaping over small woolen academics no more are we understanding embodied the skeletal remains of mix and match grouping herds according to cow stress the farmer transcends the dawn, puts on make up and barks orders at the chickens to "start clucking and put out some mother fucking roly polys" and I turn the sign around and count up my stack of nothingness and take some off the top and pull the metal grate down hard to attract attention from onlookers and passer bys and go home to my one bedroom summer cottage and turn the light on seen from the street seeming peaceful like a stranger winding down and getting ready for bed goonight.