13 PROBLEMS OF THE EXCESSIVELY LITERATE

God swoops and hollers in our souls, calling us to lives ... mad lives, futile lives, aimless lives, fragmented lives, Our Lives of Perpetual Doubt and Anguish ... calling us to lives of trainwrecks and sunspots in the coffee, of tomato plants as high as heaven, of hippos in the jubjub trees, of shoes.

I once, when i was General Paint, commanding (or is it [was it?] commandeering?) battalions of cans—african mudslide! faulty love! flamingo sunset!—fantasized (not without some guilt and pleasure) of being Specific Paint (or was it General Mudslide? General Specific? [it most certainly wasn’t General Motors]).  But that was then.

Shoes.  Can’t live without them.  Though i did once on the backside of a giraffe.  Giraffes.  Can live without them.  Have my whole life.  That says something.

Swoops and hollers in our souls.  God is our souls.  Swoops and hollers in itself, themselves, themself ... echoes echoing in echoes of echoes:  that’s art and god and life and nothing much has happened more than that.  Swoops and hollers, woopers, shollers.  All the excitement.  Tuxes and taxes, minis and bindis, you know the story, you’ve been in the hole.

A fuzzy word approached me on 42^nd (42^nd so’s overdone—41^st) asking for directions.  Fashionable, a little pissed, a fan of Švankmajer, never very punctual, sewer-friendly, musky, i told it, Go south 54 blocks, turn right which wasn’t true so bad on me.  Fuzzy words and oops and wollers, gotta love ‘em.  God does.

God.  What a word.  Not a fuzzy word (or not the fuzzy word on 42^nd asking for directions [maybe]).  We can only swear in response, the 7 billion of us all at once swearing like banshees, that’s why we invented god, to swear.  A little madness, a little dancing, a little god.

So here we are, looking at the trains, waiting for a wreck, calm and collected like a Jesuit, gulping coffee like a brodsky, smoking cigarillos like a train, looking out for god (as usual), the wreck’ll come first, someone said, probably right, this is that, amen.

Tomato hippos high as willows, heaven trees planting in the suns.  Lucy, Alice, ain’t Lucy, Alice, but de Sade is Poe when he wants to be; smack, smack.

I was walking in my gods (i mean shoes) (i think) when a flamingo slid down Africa and said (something like) Sunset Motors! General Faulty! Painty Painty!, left without adieu or whatnot.  Whatnot!  There’s a word.

Speaking of.  Waste management.  The future.  Not plastics any longer.  Old TS, that menstruaphobe, that Starnbergersee, hurry up please it’s twit, like a violet taxi patronizing Thebes by the Isle of Dogs in drag or rag or something.  *%#$@!^.  Data data dumdiata aum.

Rhyme bites, rhymes bite, brine rights ... no ... let’s stop it here like gentlemen when travelling all day never letting their heavily laden carts outa sight.  But like st paul or oppenheimer or humankinder (why kind or kinder?) can’t quite stop it here or even there.  Hence dr seuss, said foucault.  So there.

Anyway.  there it is.  there them.  the goddy folk.  whooping it up in whatever.  here we are.  in da hearta darkness, revelation (why revelation?) any chapter, bm epilogue (judge of our scats’n’fires), andy Warwhoop, maria marina fluxus-nexis fluxus fucks us amen amen tutankhamun lowercase u txt me make me lol me down ya benjy fretting dilsey candle lse-me yippdidƏya puddin’pi  {“ ”}

anyway².  Here’s a joke.  How is a shoe like a soul?  They both flapflap.  Laugh much?  Like angels.  Chicken Boop.  Like Betty sorta.  It’s going down.  Or rather, its.  Jughead for Antichrist!  Education is the answer.  Was.  What is it now?  The Intertits.  Praise me and quasimodo panzamancha quasipanza modomancha ... j_a!