Saturday, March 01, 2008


Soccer ball matricide, it was the End of Days.
Shanking was the national pastime.
I needed a disguise.
The embassy was full.
The taco dogs ran for the border.
Avenue B was gluten-free, Aussies in the streets of Laredo.
Marty Robbins in sailor drag: it was the winter of our malcontent.
Terrible twos.
Anthems to the west; vitriol to the east.
We went east; we’d seen the better days.
No need for coddling.
We weren’t like Stu and Didi.
Biggest mistake was coddling Stalin.
They did their best.
That oldest child was canine. Vertiginous at that.
A veritable firestorm.
Of Chanel.
Stanford Law School (waiting list).
Palo Alto was pining in the oaks.
Her favorite flavor.
After Drew shut the blinds, you could never tell.
There was no tell.
Only Mamet.
Not Mammon.
Not Manet.
(Well, perhaps Manet—he’s an equal duck. Quite ducky, in fact.
Keeps them all lined up.)
Oh, yes: Mamet.
Do tell.
No—no tell.
Yes, we got that.
The reference.
Yes, the reference.
She could have used more.



Stu and Didi’s oldest? Stanford Law (waiting list)?
The veritable firestorm.
More references.
Wikipedia wasn’t good enough.
Wikipedia is never enough. For heaven’s sake, I hacked into Napoleon’s biography and said he came to my birthday party.
Did he?
Did he what?
Come to your party. I heard you played the Buckinghams.
Of course not.
No Buckinghams?
Yes, Buckinghams; no Napoleon, you fool.
I see. What did he do?
What do you mean, what did he do?
That you didn’t invite him.
He was dead, for Godsakes.
A little harsh, don’t you think?
A little—
There were pumpkins. He wouldn’t have liked it.

Orange. He loathed the color.
That makes me feel better. Lots better.
I hoped it would.
Taliesin mist.
Your chaperone?
One skanky perfume. I’d rather wear warheads.
Precisely. Only black cherry.
Your last one?
‘Fraid so.
It’ll cost me.
Not really.
That skank seems to have permeated the American West.
Two hogs frying.
Like they say.
American Samoa, too.
I was thinking—
I know what you were thinking.
I hear that density is everything.
That and accessories.
I can’t abide accessories.
Gob will forgive you.
The very one.
Who he?
Gob walks where you walk, sees where you see, inventories while you sleep.
Dressed in grey, walks around with a calculator-thingy in a holster?
The very.
Seems disheveled.
Sanity usually is.
The stray comb on occasion.
On occasion of what?
Song. Dance. The birthday of, say, Debbie Reynolds.
The unsinkable Molly—
The very.
Not Julie—
No, not Julie.
You’re sure. That Poppins chick—

I see your point.
Bit of a weasel, you get down to it.
That may be pushing it.

You see blue dogs in the morning, the way I do?
I see blue and dogs; I can’t say I see the two together.
You’re gazing east, yes?
I am.
And squinting?
Now why would I squint, the morning all decked out like Princess Grace in her glory?
The blaze of her, my good man, the blaze! The blaze is incalculable.
Territory of the grey holster man, I suppose.
If he’s so inclined. That time of day, he’s usually down at the well.
Drawing water, I suppose.
Chatting up the ladies, actually.
A real ladies man is our Gob, eh?
Anthropologist. Mead and Bateson. Mateson, you might say.
Law firm?
Not the last time I checked. I’d say it was downright flaccid.
Nothing to lose, I guess.
Not the least bit. Fortitude for Lent, but not much more.
Child’s play.
It always was. I’ve never known it not to be.
You obviously never knew Loretta.
Heard of, yes. Known, not at all. I hear she shelled pecans.
She may have. But not like the Holy Ghost of pecan shellers.
Tenayuca, yes—
May she rest in peace.
I doubt peace is what she wants. Justice, more than likely.
Do it, brother.
We all should.
You been to the Plaza del Zacate?
Been known to. To the Esquire more. But, I’ve seen the six story angel.
Emma, no doubt.
Beg pardon, but Emma can’t be measured in cubic centimeters of mosaic tile. Look for her in the roots.
Pecan trees. Whole grove of ‘em down by the riverside.
Chinaberry. Mulberry. Hell, even hackberry. Emma’s blessing’s on all livery. She wore her blue lightly.
She see the dogs of morning?
Every day, my brother, every day.
I had a voice, I’d sing a hymn.
That raspy gravel, that’s voice enough. I’ll sing with you.
Praises be.
Next to thee, my brother, next to thee.

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Blogger San said...


Yes, density IS everything, Wikipedia never enough.

I like this Gob invention, the one who sees us while we sleep, keeps tabs. So what of Wonka's gobstopper? Not just a candy, huh?

3:35 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Ole Gob I can't even claim, though he wandered rather brazenly into my writer-brain while roaming through this piece. The first Gob I knew was he of Chris Adrian's Gob's Grief; CA was a student of Padgett Powell's at U Florida.

Wiki's good enuff for Itchycoo Park lyrics, but not so good on broccoli nachos.

9:12 PM  

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