Sunday Scribbling #108: The Future of the Plantain

Dexter Wallabee wallows to the One Stop, search of dentine. It ain’t the fact of the matter, it just is. It didn’t have the reason until just now, in the annunciation of downtown Mobile, in the instant of recent communications, in the red fire of the bleeding sky. The blood wonders too, cuz she has a hankering and a predilection. Secretly, she still wonders if there’s a difference: Dexter assures her that there is, but only when his saxophone tones are most blazing. You blaze under a bleeding sky, see: you don’t wonder too far: the fiery grip gathers you up and you sing for your supper and all the seven dwarves of insinuation. Until that moment, it’s Henry David and his mung beans, but when the Holy Ghost and 7-11 descend, you just about ready for a good game of frozen food, dereliction guaranteed. Teddy comes beggin’ at the door, Alphonse knows no bounds, and Mahalia is just pure M-jay. We’re not talkin’ rapture, we sure ain’t talking bugaboo, we just talkin’ simple Bartleby and James. The pigs is sleepin’, the wheat is wry, the hay is in the barn. Karaoke died, sympathy for the devil too, even the Almighty Ford has seen the cinnamon girl. I can be happy, for the rest of my life…