Lifting the head that has fallen asleep and leaked onto the page the table spreading the sheet where the dog and the cat are harvested asunder into the bosoms of parentheses stretched across highway loops that have ended up in the hands of wheels steering commutes sentenced to lifting the head that has fallen asleep and leaked onto the page it was at fault it was its fault it was the head's fault and its foolish image of shoes smacking onto the floorboards from the bed where white toes swollen with pacing under red tear-filled eyes above a nose folded in the middle of a neglected magazine.
Picking it up where it fell off where it broke off into the inaudible scrawling of wayward meadows dug out and excreted onto pavement and maybe even yards for being passed through strained intestines for passing by passing on that’s where neighbors come appearing suddenly as forgotten waste returning as an invasive species to tank the swamp until it evaporates after the drizzle of gestures drying into the turds about the yard.
The aging gentleman was wondering if he could jump or climb up or down the next passage of what was in store confronted by news of his refracted anger at the child who bumped into his knee the one that was weak from the accident the one with the bus of athletes and their shouting and ridiculing aimed at what need was there for them to encircle him and push and prod him when they had their bus to do it for them.
Heavy eyelids closed her ears to the traffic of words despite the bluster of their meaning unsettling her blanket. Largely a matter of being not so well-known not so well to arise to sit on the toilet for an unknown length of time in the dark the dark that seeps from between her swollen toes into the backyard drying out in the backyard the new shovel shoveling the same shit getting rid of a nuisance only to have the relishing of that moment end with his old and worn out shorts latched onto barbs the metal thorns the subjection of the object to things and their surroundings hemmed in by getting rid of a nuisance only to have the relishing of that moment end with his old and worn out shorts latched onto barbs the metal thorns the subjection of the object to things and their surroundings hemmed in framed for a still life cell within the walls of borrowed ramparts to be given back after picking it up where it fell off.
Being approached had been a part of this forced navigation and even when characterized by a hooker breaking a heel on a manhole cover or a patronizing door-to-door salesman's belch the near miss obliteration from a weaned planetoid has inspired much dejection in a body stuck to the fence topped with a mind that could always use a timely removing for a good soak as yet more rain clouds disappear around the far off mountains.
"What channel are you tuned in to?" asked Naggish.
"A web of my own making or someone else's," muttered Gunk patting the top railing of the fence with both hands and contemplating biting his nails after thumb wrestling with a leper about a third of the way through a game of 500 rummy before finishing his sopapilla.
"I meant inside," said Naggish horrified by the sudden image of the golf course surrounded by shopping carts and lean-tos.
"Don't look now," said Gunk.
"What?" reacted Naggish turning about and scanning up and down the street.
"I meant this way," indicated Gunk lowering his eyes.
"All the dog shit in your backyard?" answered Naggish.
"You are fluent in the obvious, Naggish," said Gunk scraping his tongue with his teeth to continue discarding the leftover sandwich still drenched with condensation from a defective refrigerator.
"Aren't we all then?" pointed out Naggish.
"From a defective something or other," muttered Gunk as he realized what he was saying and gave an abridged yawn.
"Snap out of it," said Naggish.
"That's what you keep telling me," replied Gunk.
"And how many times have I had to keep on telling you?" inquired Naggish.
"Seven, I think," said Gunk grimacing.
"Seven is a lucky number," announced Naggish.
"Why is seven lucky?" asked Gunk looking at his roof and noticing a tile four tiles missing.
"I don't remember," Naggish said with an image of a blue screen and the message NO SIGNAL in his head.
"It's a lemon," said Gunk with an image of a screen door and its mesh bulging as a vacuum cleaner is pushed too far across crumbs of cheese curls on dark red living room carpet in his head as a sharp pain on the right side of his lower abdomen made itself known.
"What's a lemon?" asked Naggish.
"This karma. It's a lemon," commented Gunk.
"Seeing you stuck to this fence makes me think about why my business hasn't been going so well," said Naggish.
"There was this salesman walking along and right in the middle of his pitch emits a loud belch - must have lasted three seconds although if asked he probably would have rounded it off to the nearest ten. After making some comment that hovered like a satellite view over an apology he insisted on continuing about some form of auto glass insurance package with intermittent lame attempts at repeating back any information he tried to pull out of his latest inevitable rejection. As he walked on he drank more brown foam from his liter of soda," droned Gunk while his gentle rocking against the chain link fence had gradually become a little more dramatic and then less so again.
"My income has been unreliable lately. This next generation is too young and indecisive," said Naggish.
"Why are you looking at me that way?" asked Gunk.
"What way?" asked Naggish thinking he heard some distant explosion at the town dump or was it the recycle collection bins?
"Just wanted to use the question as a segue to how much grey hair has developed on this side of my head over my left ear," said Gunk.
"Brown foam you said?" asked Naggish.
"You can't miss it you have to admit with how much it has been spreading all along the left side, Naggish, come on," insisted Gunk.
"Did that happen to you with the salesman?" asked Naggish.
"You can grind your asphalt tangent all you want, Naggish. The grey's even manifesting itself on to the top of my head and trying to get it's purchase before working its way to the part you know," said Gunk.
"You don't have a part," observed Naggish.
"That's right. Went to the lady in the hole in the wall they have there by the returns department at the supermarket," recalled Gunk crinkling his nose.
"Which one was it? Was it the one with the tattoo of the apartment collapse?" asked Naggish eagerly.
"No. The one who smells of hand sanitizer and utility sink after its rained," quipped Gunk.
"I thought it was a letter M and stood for somebody's name until I took a closer look at it," said Naggish.
"She didn't always smell like that," lamented Gunk.
"Combinations, Gunk. It's the combinations that make it more lucky," said Naggish.
"All the various positions buried her smell," said Gunk hollowly.
Naggish said, "No, I mean it's all the combinations of seven, you know, two plus six and three plus-"
"That's eight," stated Gunk.
"I know, I was going to say instead three plus five," replied Naggish.
"That's still eight," said Gunk.
"Damn it all to fungal growths!" shouted Naggish.
"What flexibility in all these combinations finding new ways back to the same repetitions," muttered Gunk.
"Jam it all up the dismal promontory!" yelled Naggish.
Gunk looked up and spoke, "Driving on the road and saw over the mountains a hole in the storm clouds."
"Was this you you're talking about? I can't tell. You're still showing up somewhere and not just here," asked Naggish.
"What difference where or who? Either here or there it's a matter of hoping hoping someone won't notice the ways my body shows up in my clothes the way the contents press up against the skin press up against the folds. A hunched over potato bug existence if there ever was one," said Gunk. "Driving on the road and saw over the mountains a hole in the storm clouds and the light wasn't shining out it was closing in on itself like once when in the reflection of her eyes one of her eyes eyes reflecting each other and her hair was tangled hanging her in the curtain cords of eyelashes."
Heavy eyelids closed her ears to the traffic of words despite the bluster of their meaning unsettling her blanket. Largely a matter of being not so well-known not so well to arise to sit on the toilet for an unknown length of time in the dark the dark that seeps from between her swollen toes into the backyard drying out in the backyard the new shovel shoveling the same shit getting rid of a nuisance only to have the relishing of that moment end with his old and worn out shorts latched onto barbs the metal thorns the subjection of the object to things and their surroundings hemmed in by getting rid of a nuisance only to have the relishing of that moment end with his old and worn out shorts latched onto barbs the metal thorns the subjection of the object to things and their surroundings hemmed in framed for a still life cell within the walls of borrowed ramparts to be given back after picking it up where it fell off.
Being approached had been a part of this forced navigation and even when characterized by a hooker breaking a heel on a manhole cover or a patronizing door-to-door salesman's belch the near miss obliteration from a weaned planetoid has inspired much dejection in a body stuck to the fence topped with a mind that could always use a timely removing for a good soak as yet more rain clouds disappear around the far off mountains.
- Max Stoltenberg
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