skyy blue is the official beverage of the aryan nation. that was his new thought for the day. skyscrapers and elevators give the best view of the ants, fire ants working the mound. a mirror on the clouds reflective and sullen, taking the light into tiny particles and releasing them in bunches. a neon rain.
cars, long ones three windows deep, skate into line like so many hush muskies with drums for eyes. finding out one second too late that the situation could have been avoided. the downtown sprawl nothing like the movies, more like the peach orchards in oklahoma, rusty ground and willing farmer's daughter hiding behind the fence, tongue betwixt the teeth. pigtails willout? i think so. she's the type that will actually butter both sides for you.
he used to stand on the rocks at bar harbor, mount desert isle, and think about swimming to halifax. the sharks could have him. the higher you go, the quicker they get you. he rather be caught in an elevator with the aging jazz musician who plays the same set twice to the same crowd. he hopes nobody saw his hand exit the fly. quick percision.
the neon rain continues. it twists as it falls, hammering into hair folicles and silk sweaters. the coffee cup without a lid. the eyeglass without an arm on the left side. the familyman pack without the salisbury steak. ramen without the chicken flavor pack.
BING the bell rings, doors slide open. he exits into the lobby, feels a wen in his brow. nobody saw, nobody saw.
Posted by snackfight at July 17, 2002 03:48 PM