November Spawned a Monster
October is in the rear view. The rear view is in the river. Pelagic creatures are flopping about in the shallows wondering where the encroaching oceans went.
The monks are illuminating by the gallows. The henchmen are getting soused.
Bring me freedom in reused wrapping paper and take your sleep wherever you can get it.
My knees are knocked by hummingbird buzz and candle wax. I’ve turned into a fairy but my wings are made of iron ore.
The Department of Divestiture is out on a declination of compasses decimated by degaussing — and the polarities have fled to Argentina and the Argentinians have decamped to Mauritania.
So I’ll content myself by washing my submarine and whistling a tune from a future era.
Hallowed is thy appendix. Here’s November!
“Reconsider writing by hand. There is a kind of story that comes from hand. Writing which is different from a tapping-on-a-keyboard-kind-of-story. For one thing, there is no delete button, making the experience more life like right away.”
— Lynda Barry