The Book of the Homeless by Léon Bakst et al.
It smells like someone just did a big load of laundry. Down at the stockyards, next to the pulp plant. Like Yogi Berra’s been eating beans. Or potatoes from PEI.
But I’ve been fooled before. Once when the fruit man had his finger on the scale. Twice when the stories of the supreme being didn’t add up. Thrice under the dismal flag of patriotism.
And the time came to unearth my mother’s breasts, and to play ball like my father before me. Hollow Wood be thy name.
Let’s party like there were no tomorrow. Or wen’t there? Generations of philosophers can’t but disagree. They, the disagreeable generations, caught one of the chambermaids tapping into a keg of rum in the cellar. They salted her behind. They smoked her underwear. And in the end, they offered her another cigar.
Pay no tension to the curses of a crotchety old geezer.
Crochety as the lack of ball room, yet a faithful geezer.
We reserve the right, though we lead with our left, to mock, malign, mortify, minimize, mess with, and misundersestimate:
- folks from the funny farm
- nut cases
- she who for her heirs left a lot to be desired
- he who left his creditors a pretty penny
- the hardly boys when they met the milky maidens
It is but right, however, to mention in the first place the plants whose discoverers can be found, with their properties classified according to the kinds of disease for which they are a remedy. To reflect indeed on this makes one pity the lot of man.
Stay in a ball for ten seconds. Both the heat and the blast wave will pass over you in that time. Then, if you can, stand up. You will be among the survivors — provide you can move fast enough to avoid falling rubble and fire. If the explosion catches you one step from a tree-trunk or doorway, you can take that step and crouch with your back to the wall. Ib this position debris and fallen glass will fall beond you
Men of brains! Let us not be led astray by our low-hanging grapes.
Women of fruit, we can’t say by how much.
When, as so-and-so is said to have said, the abomination stands in the holy place, and all the decimation points of consumer capitalism no longer fit the human concussion, then keep calm and carrion.
When the psychopath of the cycle path sets his sights on the city on the hill, then shoulder the salt, and pass the pepper.
And dos be donny, my furry friend, just this once and for all.
Gravity refused to be quantized, thereby creating 4-dimensional space. It’s in its nature.
So mused the monkey who modeled the collapse of a pair of neutron stars after measuring their gravitational waves, oscillating less than the diameter of a proton. It’s all in the book.
From the collapse comes gold. And the other heavy elements. We praise the gods for heavy elements, for without the heavy elements, we wouldn’t have rocks. The parts warehouse would be barren as bottom’s baby, as old Hubbard is said to have reported to the dean of ineptitudes.
I’m trying to kick the habit, whispered the cardinal to the priest. Well within earshot of Mother Superior.
They wasn’t sure what to make of themselves. They’d been inflated with self esteem but no overflow valve.
Any idiot could see they were living in a fantasy world of their own makings.
But they had seminal endearing properties. Two bits on the barrelhead. Time for cheese and crackers.
Down in the gutter you’ve got to wonder, if something was pulling the strings of the universe, would it be making a distinction between tribes of mammals.
How long can you be in two places at once before you collapse? Only a few watershed moments.
I was there at the beginning, when the first corpuscle came ashore, heaving. I was there when they said many a mouthful, more than enough for a month of sundays.
The word was, she would bend over backwards to do you a big favor. He was a unitarian from the get-go, they said, and a pleuralist for the tobacco lobby. She was declared queen of the countdown at T minus 10.
He never knew his place, but they always set him a spot at the table. That shit-eating grin was as plain as the nose on his face.
She could smell a rat, as the snake was her mascot. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she’d know it when she seed it. The rest is history.
I was there at the end, when the last act of legerdemain petered out. I raise my glass to the good old days, and pray to google that my very words might be immemoralized. Or at least kept in the cache at the national security agency, until the clouds begin to gather.