Monday, March 27, 2006

Notes on urban parking

Walk on a flying carpet of nails suspended thirty feet in the air gingerly.

Below stubby oak stumps whittled away span upward, a city of angels. Or tall, narrow columns interspersed. Fake wood grain, plastic veneer cover medium density fiberboard arranged in tribute to Tatlin. No leaning tower of Pisa or Babel instead atop each faux bamboo pole is perched athletic shoewear spray-painted gold or some metallic finish in enamel.

Every level is marked and color-coded for your convenience.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

On projectile regurgitation

Three separate moments, a simultaneous jumble of far-flung joss sticks, about thirty seconds apart run parallel in marathon time. Who knew things could misalign so perfectly? Yet not surprisingly, the bizarro neighbors straight from an unfinished manuscript are aghast nonetheless.

She pauses and swallows, every meal a Poseidon adventure. Water rushes in, washing away the coral reef, turns and explodes in an upward stream-of-consciousness.

The technician deftly moves the mouse connected by antique plugs to a snowy black and white glass tube and the pixelated image glows, a checkered pattern of visualized Morse code causing eyes to wander. Chutzpah four inches long presages the next coming. On the tarmac each moniker is aflame, shot to pieces over the Pacific. In unison, ghosts shout, "Tora! Tora! Tora!"

Asleep, it crackles a spark and then goes black.

Therefore life is good, Charlie Brown.