MERRY MONDAY AT THE GAS PUMP OF NOVEMBER
Evil resides in Vallejo, the rotten fruit of California. Condemned as a fool, Simon became the saint of simpletons. Known locally as The Freak, he leapt over chaotic hauntings in need of angels to make bad things go away. This is his story, told by him.
Skinny scarecrow strongmen with straw hands and feather fingernails whispered my name; I fought them off with spaghetti strands. This is me, Simon Keane, antidote supreme. I eat with a fork in each hand and my bottom in the sand. I'm always at least 100 miles from the nearest pickle. Some people ask me, “How did you get out of the microwave?” I tell them that nothing bestializes a being like the taste for eternal happiness. Hey, don’t be slow to judge.
Basket-weaving gerbil breakdancing festivals come and go. There’s a notch on my bedpost next to the whip I use to flog my teddy bear. I bought Valentine’s Day on Columbus Day. Cannibalism, not just for breakfast anymore! There is no pudding in China.
Pterodactyl defense requires strange tattoos, racist language, fake accents, sidewalk assets, and the burden of lifetime commitments. Bleach is unnecessary on the moon. Butter can’t fly. Swarthy men in pickup trucks want to perform elbow porn.
I encountered a wall of jars containing tiny universes and dropped one as an act of divinity. Magnificent ornamentation disguises despair as vacuousness. I found an embroidered tablecloth in an abandoned Queen Ann mansion and left it soaking in a tub of blood for later use at a nearby children’s orphanage. The suspension of the incantation left me in need of intoxication. I miss your hat.
Maria Aceveda, you need to trim your green grass and your brown curls. The squirt gun turned her into melted cheese. That’s when I saw crass bitches from Helvetica creating gumdrop madness, making Maria lick her own nipples. That specimen drives recklessly around town. She ran a stop sign and shattered a porcelain woman. I now have the foundation I need to keep her legs inside her chest. Trying to spice up the sheet shows.
Another moment passes and now becomes then. There were eyeballs everywhere.
My buddy
Fred
has amnesia. He’s as happy as he’s
ever been, as far as he knows.
His
boiled intestinal fortitude hovered outside when Karl Marx roared down the
road, wove into oncoming traffic, and crashed head first into a beer truck. A vehemently justified kickboxing
pop warped a demolished moon in a turd-filled room at noon later on Saturday
night.
Another
friend, Smarmy McShane, he’s a casualty gawker. Watched Karl’s spleen develop
superpowers. Said he saw goofs and fluffs pitying sulking junkies, car-counting
clerks, and weeping winos.
…
In
Simon’s world, stark lifetimes pass away like sonnets from the lips of a
forgotten jester. Gilded honey lips of fashioned mollusks kiss orangutan plums
with dappled viridians pleading for jaded relinquishment. Guanine flinches
spackle the day with care. Frivolously manufactured lily pads reward the patchy
fracas. The fad of grape-colored electric sockets sting zaps in hands reaching
in the zone of traps. Grandfather’s garden quail arrowed a clit to lip. Disturbing
qualia arises when those who follow believe what they follow. A rotting apricot
in a dry wash met a face full of melting structures and jagged lines. Things
touch and fringes intermingle. The proximal distal, the crystal maze, and the
handheld digital are on a pedestal of blame.
