Ex-Postmistress Wimple Pusher

My audit was like a badly tuned early 1970’s tempo whose piggedness and sovereign chauvinism was detuning and attenuating, and my faux chest hairs were on the ropes again moving the affiliate antihero about trying to get syntonized. I set the bookstall assault and opened my judgement to the previous day’s halibut — empty paintings all. Bad Gaugin and even worse Van Gogh. Ever heard the Dutch pronounce Van Gogh? 

Silly rabbits, we americans (writ weeny-miniscule) are, that appropriate everything for ourselves. Hegemony. Threnody. Sadness. Call for a reorganization — a dress down link just below “We’re number 1!” assumptions . . . so I wrote: 

You’re all a bunch of breeders, hucksters, and Illuminati believers. Damnation, people! Why?

Who was that dumbfounded procurator I saw? She reminded me of my ex-postmistress wimple pusher. Singing “Dominique” so aggressively . . . I spent all night talking to her at Starbuck’s and it was enough to convince me she’d be nutcase two — my second wife. 

I hated the Singing Nun. My mother played that earwig incessantly because her mother had played it to her . . . familial reciprocity . . . alas, look at me now!

What are these nubbins of accretion on my hypothalamus? I ain’t on no GLP-1 agonist. What are thee Arsonist Chemicals razing my chemical balance like some hormonal Santa Ana wind madness?

I want it to stop — this incessant druggist in my head. I want the mercenaries to stop — they are all talk, talk, talk to me now — through the yobs, through the haze, they reach out and thump me like monitoring duds. I ain’t no fuddy duddy, buddy! I ain’t wearing my pants up to my sternum. Sterno.

Sterno . . . drank sterno once and saw votary candles floating in space above the nave — disembodied faculties, like Pound’s “apparition of these faces . . . ”  my personal phantasmagoria on a wet black bouffant doo. The phantasms . . . they impinge, they intrude on my goiters and dangle, at the most inopportune angles. 

And there was poppa heating the sterno — blue flame hatlets of shame! — handing me his pick axe and asking me to use it on him at Velvet Creme Donuts. Momma in a tank top midriff and cruller stilettos singing “Under My Thumb.” And there’s momma’s second husband handkerchiefing, squeezing and scalding a voluntary scamper, yelling at all who will listen (and lots that don’t): “die, why don’t you die already? You swine, you sycophant shooting criminals!” 

Now I’m on my last nimbus, the warm glow turning dry ice, as hard working migrants are rounded up by the bathrooms. Robyn Hitchcock sings sorrows: “Madonnas of the Falangists,” and poppa goes on a Audrey Hepburn jag. And momma decries “feminists in their black and white trumpet strumpets…” 

It’s pell-mell, helter-skelter, give me shelter last call!

I flashed to Bwana Ana in her bee yoga tear-jerker garbling, her handkerchiefs pressed tightly to her Walkman (what year is this?) as if she’s trying to keep the antennae from popping out. Robyn Hitchcock is singing “I’m hearty that sickening pounding and squeaking of the bee.”

Tine has come to set it straight again. So I write: 

Time has come to set it straight again. 

So, set your tines on my thoroughfares. And read the lip reader larcenists on my spinning weathercock… N, NNW, SW, ESE, E… let me be. I’ve got to regain some ballpoint composure. Gusts and straight winds be damned! It’s all so off-kilter now. 

Stop talking to me through tines, you muckers! You mucking twits don’t exist. Stop! 

¡El sueño de la razon produce monstruos!

Later I was rereading a seedling of a Samuel Beckett trope. Waking for the third tine. Time. Tine. Time, damn it!

I couldn’t take the dives, forks be damned, the gilts wouldn’t stop talking. The gilts flamed my guilt. I turned off the tremolo — between the dearth of the nib and the surfeit of “shock and awe” in this deathsucking nation. The rumors dropped by the mischief-maker in chief that warm footing has been turned into all-out penknife kilograms at polemic bleeder rates — it was too much beauty all at once.

My inner voices sounded like the crescendo of Ligeti’s “Atmospheres.”

It’s time for bed. Instead.

What I’m Reading:

I listen to my inner voice
It calls things by their inner names

— Zan de Parry / “Banging” / Cold Dogs