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[A Season In Heck,] a lesion on neck, a butterfly of blood, a butterfly band-aid blooming over the fastest ankle this side of Peoria–let us say a simple zoo where highway sound never cleaves, clings to the whimper of a motel full of undersexed gentlemen; next thing is the mosquito-neck giraffe peering over a raked nail fence, sees grass free of pee, weeps a net, end of story, almost, because I spirit the net to the river full of sunk boat, sunk guy, sunk rock, sunk shout, sunk sad, and fish, glorious fish, alive as the grass when wind moose-farts in it, living shouting singing fish, fish whom, if you sink the net right, climb aboard, plus this glorious rub: they’re trainable fish ® the giraffe sounds like he says this, having risked his neck for peeless vetch: says, train the fish, they shall simper-sing in whitened gray, train them to sing like water out of water–they shall yodel peerless, and you shall travel in a grand-creeping-turn-of-the-century-dust-humping circus, one jaunty mass of jimber jammer, down country roads, down the steam train tracks, kicking a sweet lioness of dust up behind, a lioness full of gazelle, a wild free sugared placard no plaque cloud of dust, and you shall, likely, more than a 50% chance, appear after the ballerina with a beard with bleeding gums who buries herself under Christ’s nails: tada, I present you the catfish to belt them out, the lunker who trills through his exquisite Russian novel hero mustache, yodeling his way home through jaunty ditties the likes of which have not been seen in ears since Jimmie Rodgers buttered the Jersey estuaries. It’s five smackers the night of, and free, if you’ve been waiting on non-zoo grass, rabbit ears from a motel TV in your right hand, the truth: you’re always about to rub the giraffe between her eyes, which she clearly wants, and would say please, but the words catch |