Flutes and Flagella
(March 05/06)
There is a colophon perched roosting on the tree branch outside my windowsill pane. It is, as to its repertoire, making beautiful music, a symphonic cacophony of flutes, flagella, trumpets, oboes, violas, spinnerets, and cellos. I am of a mind to count them all, one by one and then from back to front. And Mozart made a trumpet of his ass, trumpeting a toot-tooting toiletry. When I was a boy there was a sign exclaiming for all to read and ponder, To Let, which to my eagle eyes read, Toilet. Eye marksmanship not being my strong suit, or the proper parsing of letters or words. And March came in like a Mayan, all rice-sticky and ready to toss a hymen into the mouth of the volcanic furnace. Headgear and plumage, and faces painted with rosin and cup-ash. No never a slighted moment nor a shimmer of the cursed impetigo. It is somber day, March 5th two thousand and six. When I played the jewsharp, my tongue would flail the mouth organ like a peal of orange rind or a pinch of the creamery. Never once, to my recollection, did I make a harmonious sound or a toot-tooting from the trombone of my ass. And he freely associated a disassociation. Not so free, but disassociate nonetheless.
There is a colophon perched roosting on the tree branch outside my windowsill pane. It is, as to its repertoire, making beautiful music, a symphonic cacophony of flutes, flagella, trumpets, oboes, violas, spinnerets, and cellos. I am of a mind to count them all, one by one and then from back to front. And Mozart made a trumpet of his ass, trumpeting a toot-tooting toiletry. When I was a boy there was a sign exclaiming for all to read and ponder, To Let, which to my eagle eyes read, Toilet. Eye marksmanship not being my strong suit, or the proper parsing of letters or words. And March came in like a Mayan, all rice-sticky and ready to toss a hymen into the mouth of the volcanic furnace. Headgear and plumage, and faces painted with rosin and cup-ash. No never a slighted moment nor a shimmer of the cursed impetigo. It is somber day, March 5th two thousand and six. When I played the jewsharp, my tongue would flail the mouth organ like a peal of orange rind or a pinch of the creamery. Never once, to my recollection, did I make a harmonious sound or a toot-tooting from the trombone of my ass. And he freely associated a disassociation. Not so free, but disassociate nonetheless.
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