Parable of the Moldy Situation

Into the mist, the forest of illumination waits with hundreds of tree tentacles reaching out to the sun, to the matter in the sky. Fuel for fire and figs drop on harmless grassy blades bending in the wind, bent to the will of their rising heads. Gravity pressing down so things can come up. It always happens this way and most of the time without starting the stopwatch.

Nearby, an eagle-hawk chants his lore and wisdom to the jungle monkey who sits listening but really just wants to ruffle his feathers. The serpent leans against a rake, smoking a cigarette. There is a light in his eyes that gleams beyond his sunglasses. The eagle-hawk spies the smoke rising and flies away to protect his eyes. The serpent apologizes and lights another cigarette.

Stern and hardy, lean and bold, Typewriter the Magnificent takes a vacation (to the south seas! on a skiff!). Alone and lonely he begins to record what he sees. Waves, clouds, sun, sky. He records all, understanding nothing. He is interrupted by the Great Whale. It lifts its head and blasts a fountain of questions to the sun. The sun replies with the same answer as before and before. The Great Whale, seeming satisfied, takes back to the underwaves without another groan. Typewriter the Magnificent, stenographer extraordinaire, records all, understanding nothing.

Blood beats behind the horizon, pulsing with the distant sun arches. Eventually dusk fades to night and the stars resume their shining. They blink and bounce their harmonies to the world below. We sit and wonder why we can't keep one in our pocket for the next time we run out of wine and the jungle monkey has a handful of feathers.

Another Deluge

gangrene debris floating through the flood. be wary of the minotaur, he's peddling a new brand of acupuncture and doesn't take kindly to loiterers. you grab here and there for any article that floats or that gives shade. your raft is made up of hair driers, wine corks, and tennis rackets - held together by rubber bands and twisty ties. for good measure you have brought aboard a cymbal and a loom, and at least you picked up that copy of the Odyssey that, after it has dried off, will provide for good kindling. the shake shimmy of the waves makes bunches of the same items collect together in amoeba pudding cup fields and condom algae scales. but for the sky, there is no dome structure in sight.

Short Story (Quite Short)

Misled overfed tired of bed Harry the Harpooner puts on his buckskin and painted mask and sallies outside. Never knowing more than an empty horizon and a beer at bedtime he works on loosening the knot that is hampering the sails. Titans are out in force today and gales grip pinch divot the wave matter. Orange peels float across the stern bow but never counterclockwise. Harry fends off fatigue under the noontime shade of an uprooted banana tree and sings ditties to his cable man Rick the Stick. Counter to popular belief, Rick was not a child genius, he merely had a natural ability to gesture like a retired Swede. Baldness came with evening and the two were ready to quit their diet when a loud crash was heard port side. Rivulets ringed rosy wine stains through woodgrain clothes. Totem poles toppled and the sun cut itself in half. Panic would have overtaken them if there were not stars in the sky. Their compass blade beseeched them for a new scrivener to buccaneer with. Scabbard or no, it was a long day.