Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Notes on the precipice

Five times around the block except at right angles going counterclockwise certainly defies a certain gravity even of a certain age.

Especially since what should have been smooth sailing is now only imaginary, interrupted by ill-placed ottomans rising above the mowed lawns many a fledging Dick Van Dyck trips over. No dexterous glissade so effortless and graceful as seen on television. But a manly pas de deux involving old-fashioned jiujitsu, a self-inflicted hip toss or open field tackle pancaking egos, suit of armor disheveled, knees grass-stained.

Only it happened before when the flowers arrived too soon or how maybe a king and queen faraway consented instead to their double or where an arm braced itself in comfort unaware of context or why
all the preceding became a punch in the gut that felt like another slap in the face because it is apparently a sign of weakness to play the hand dealt.

How many times, though, seem endlessly comical. And after the brief courtship of their favorite Martian, Lolita always gets what Lola wanted.

But dancing on the ceiling is still illegal in most states of disrepair and no matter where you are, better to hold off and stay back.

The game remains afoot.

Monday, December 24, 2012

Notes loud and clear from another island

On front of a penny, the reluctant picture bride protests, her usually complaisant voice high-pitched to offset the sailor moon being clouded by so many knockoff Akari lampshades cheaply made in distant Occidental sweatshops.

The rage beneath her schoolgirl uniform, though, swells her bosoms into two engorged cannonballs, fuses lit as enemy sheep wearing men's clothing begin to bleat, ready to pounce.

A mild-mannered manga balloon lady transformed into orange high top Pumas now ascend above the giant robot standing at her ready. And the forty nine tars who gather delirious from yellow fever are driven back by three old and wise ronin wielding long-needled syringes containing the proper dosage of cloroquine and doxyocycline.

Relieved, she, too, bahs like a lost lamb before calmly stripping off every stitch of clothing to draw numerous lines in ink, acrylic, oil on primed canvas in the arid quicksand. Now spinning her metaphorical wheels or an actual industrial lathe, beautifully striped spoons appear along with simultaneously contrasted polka dots which inflate and fill the time-based space, castrating all phallic shapes with double vision.

Yet swarms upon swarms of mosquito nanoids still penetrate the easily torn rice paper screens meant to shield the rows upon rows, floors atop floors of hentai from prying alien tentacles. Her mentor from beyond the valley of the dolls reaches out to grab her hand but it slips by. One hundred thousand miracles cannot repair the damage, though.

Looking into the three-sided full-length mirror, she enjoys being a girl.

Thankfully Kusama finally awakens in time and shoves the old pervert Araki off her tatami mat for getting too frisky.

Tuesday, December 04, 2012

Three Little Pigs Redux

In the cave where three little pigs live is an upside-down four-legged pup tent inflated by deep snores.

A little cub crawls under and fumbles along the wall, feeling for a make-believe light switch. His untrimmed nails scrape over the unpainted surface like a steel rake across chalkboard. He hesitates, unsure of his bearings until further down the dusky corridor, an old Coleman lamp shines weakly above a straw door, beckoning him to go toward.

Thick air whistling through the creaky outer stick frame carries the sound of music being played from the hills above, tiny children's voices humming in chorus; so curious, he rings the bell impatiently twice.

How strange that no one answers right away as the melody continues. Because what lies on the other side could be someone being held captive against their will, calling out for help.

Without warning, contorted fingers suddenly cast shadows that huff and puff yet bend like a reed in the wind unlike the werewolf disguised as Mister Haney atop the headboard who leaps into the void, a boiling cauldron of shrimp dumpling noodle soup made from pork stock since early morning.

Startled, the cub burns his tongue slurping the piping hot broth and trips backward off the rickety stool, knocking loose two front baby teeth. His eyes aswirl, he sandwiches the Oriental rug over his furry body as a deep slumber falls upon him like a crumbling brick wall.

Overnight, the tooth fairy now an obvious favorite leaves a five dollar bill in recompense for his lower incisor---fair market value that certain Okinawans of Basque descent decry.

What a shame he swallowed the other.