Zowee wowee

A job interview on a Saturday, is that ever an insane proposition! I walked along the Bloor Street in minus 20 weather and it was clear by five minutes that no job of any calibre would be able to get me out of that bed at that hour. I was called aside to talk the talk with the human resources team. I was able to decide at the very least that cobalt and the frunge of the lunatic mind was reeling with sidelong hesitance. Keeling and canoeing with the J-stroke unlucky, how does it happen that men get clothes muddy when the last thing they ever want is to destroy the lemur, the magma carta, the pontificate zoom, the never ending sentimentality. Klown college butchers in the afternoon, weatherspoons and grundies and the tides of bays of fundy. I am a man of everlasting impertinence. I am a man of ever trusting beneficence. I am always striving to say hello. I am always striving to say hello. I am trying to discuss your boy problems with you. I am trying to unlock those special secrets you know. Why can’t we be together my sweet. When will it be my turn finally please. I need together, I need us, I need the two nice smiles in the same head-space. Can we shiver together at the warmth of the pleasure--please please I have far too much leisure. Please Please will we ever be together? I need to continue but the feudal dues are forgotten clues to a lifeless past. Please please please me. I desire nothing except to expire in your fire. I thrive with the life of the knife edge and the longing letters of the distant wife. I breathe strife into every jealous insinuation; you’re so dangerous it sets off alarms and blazes through the wicker-timber, the bonfire of my heart. I couldn’t think of a better solution, turn the massive men inside out, the small will finally overcome, the lame will scream and shout, but with victory this time, the unsipped bottle of the finest wine, finally uncorked unstoppered and glugged with vicious relief and unbridled exultation. We are the words: the description of a feeling, the moments unfelt for crying cubs caught in corporation cubicles, the nuanced innuendo and the subtle tawny laughter, the tested vicious inclemency, the tired dismissal of the non-chic, the beleaugured attempt of Godel at completeness and consistency, impossible, for then all combinations of words could be accounted for, and then fiction would cease to be. And status is descending on the fresh men, the young students unmolested by professorial prejudice, and the TAs with their grad school ambitions and the pledge to unionize, to cut up the onion in fair little slices. To throw the dice in one last attempt, the dire threading of the warbling needle, humming and declaring silence, its stitches uncreased and unceasing relief. And the police arriving off the street to club protesters with the blunt ends of nightsticks and matchstick arsonists setting off the school yard, to frighten the monitoring teachers to allow ten more minutes of recess. We count we count the words to meet the protocol, to meet the demands of the editor at the desk with the counting clicker in hand, fitting word to space, matching content to page and concrete to abstract symbols. Gutenburg and the Lobster Newburg untethered and undone, we hear groaning and the gloaming of the Roman soldiery, geysers spouting and the firewall blocks unwanted Ethernet viruses, keep out the cyber molecules that could be construed as maleficent, and the dried toast on the rack is left to burn everlasting with the pulsating preference of the pigeon stool. The wired desirous hymen, the orthoptera, the winged insects like the butterfly. We stew at the edge of a precipice, we glue unused egg shells back together to recycle and reuse, waste not want not right? We have arrived at a most vicious conclusion, and it is this: that so much nonsense could be written so completely superfluous, and even Atwood and Dostoeyevsky are just sick in the head puppies and maybe Ms. A just got lucky with her sensitivity turned gold mine. We are destroying the cable television in our own city, we are acting on impulse to churn out the words, but back to love--oh dear, why did you go away? Pollination comes too late, and oatmeal burgers are unused and under-absorbed in the moments just before dawn, this is true. I am the clutcher of the fiery gnome, I am the weather in mid winter, I come with reason, I leave as a man without cynicism. I am finally a real good kid, I have finally made it into the fustling blight, I’m the turbinated power propeller sent to the Seadoo storage facility in the middle of the night. I have the power to turn you to jelly, and yet you are able to rip me open and analyze my feelings, insightful, intuitive as you are; you are the nut I don’t dare crack, the first fist of the fight, flying into the overhead fluorescent lighting, the shuttle cocked racket, the taut strings of the elliptical hammock, the wiry frame of Mediterranean waiters on cruise ships bound for Stromboli from Naples.