Gilbert teaches self-defense

 

 

 

The Catechizer, the file erminitic, the questions brief and cutty. Myelitis, bruised eyes. Admitting to self-defense

is admitting to assault in despair. You can’t prove despair. [The Catechizer’s pretzel-book law and battery clamps.] 

 

Instead, keep a glass copaiba-tree, bury a box in its roots. In the box, selectrons, grapefruit, Stein. 

Drink deeply, file under “peccadillo,” take comfort: all your joys are chromatophores. 

 

Fold the whole thing into an origami rat, the universal symbol of occult information. Put the rat in a cathedral. 

The Catechizer is fooled by giant glass copaiba-trees. Loop rope. Pull tightly into infinity knot. Climb. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

docibility of day

 

 

 

In the fair-day of fair-suns and facing it all openly: in martyring pain for the sake of joy, in letting the Pluminary give you the tools for sending an envelope and sail-songs over the waves. Send it over! Right over.

 

Singing “Over it!” and Sir Stirabout sizes up the toll and says “Over it!” Tossing trepan wood pieces over the bridge, up and just over it. Scrambling sailors throwing out yarn-kisses leaping “Over it!” and comet serpentine orbits shining “Over it!” Oh! so over it.

 

Then flipping nickels for a proclive lean, the one you don’t see in Penley, where the liegewomen wrestle down trepedative kempies. They gave me the incident report, we stood around hitting a nail to the polished post-sign reading, “Sell your fuss!” then we went on our way. The assembly within columnic hypostyles intuited a simple direction, “To Hazeline.” With that, we leapt! The children crawled out from under their chairs and cried, “I have!” and the Pluminary, Officer and Gentleman, delivered friendly feathers for scrawlings of stories in inks.

 

So goes a stirabout, I’ll say. I’ll end it, not for love of ending, but for Hazeline, I admit it. I boil us down to grounds, but she sparkles over. Lipid, you could wonder, of penjacks. You know her, don’t you? I expected as much. A matutine cup. The multiverse in focus. Saves me from spindle spin, kindly, every day. Keeps me on for the light. She’s waiting for us now, over townside. We’ll help west and pell-mell around the levy. Our leanto, the last Masonite woodhouse, holds well in dark weather. We’ll see it through, this year. You’ll see us. We’ll give this world another para-state.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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