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1.
"Up to the
hilt," said
the grumbly-looking
fuck
to the business
chameleon
with the
notebook computer
atop the
erect beige tray.
(The cheese
from lunch sat upon its keyboard,
in a fluctuation
of real and not real.)
They were
on a plane together;
they felt
life passing them by;
they felt
the clouds
had a thing
with god.
They felt
the world
more organized
than they
and comfortably
bound
below them.
So they
made compensatory fun
of others
and jerked
each other off.
But mostly
they fell in love
with the
stewardessae,
upchucking
lunch,
clearing
a path for dinner,
becoming
potted.
(Both trays
remained stiffly cantilevered
as if waiting
for an exam)
They were
going to Japan,
their noses
getting along,
their silent
pricks,
all becoming
a leching cake
for the
happy attendant
with birthday
eyes,
for all
she was worth.
A cake placed
fiendishly
inside an envelope,
grumbly
feigning ill
as was pre-arranged
with the
fine-grained, non-birthday
stewardessae.
And thus
was she lured to them.
2.
"Jane,"
- her name - "you've no relief
for me,"
gestured potted grumbly,
ho ho-ing
from within a cheese haze
of molded
lechery
(monday's
cheese is iffy;
but tuesday's
is terriffy)
and winked
numerously, till
"I believe
in nothing,"
sprang from
Jane,
"except
birthdays and quaint."
And the
repartee went on,
and on until
grumbly
asked for
kissum desserts
and got
that indeed
upon his
stain-shaped nevus
(or was
it rubefaction?)
while the
plane began to pivot
like a snail's
eye or
a black
wreath outside time.
"And what
about cake?" winked
the chameleon,
purple-hued,
neuraxons
clacking,
opening
the envelope of deceit
as if 'twere
a season,
"We had
a thought
that you
might hurt
for the
lack of affective flirt
on this
day of days,
inside a
starched shirt;
since we
live in our worlds but once,
and depart;
since we
share
and in this
might sanctify our leaving;
since the
gods had clouds in their mind
when they
died;
and since
(oof!) grumbly's just delivered
a spearish
jab to my ribs
being that
said cake
is in fact
a sexual guerilla
and a verity
lap
about the
circumference
of an omission."
Titter.
So that
then
upchorused
the men
"O happy
birthday from we
who would
name you
with festive
intent,"
to Jane
who floated
like an
unsullied kleenex
that waits
for tree limbs
or for diamonds
to speak;
"Happy b-day
from we;
ho ho yes,
yes then
more,
more from
we!"
said the
men. At Jane.
3.
Except Jane
by this time
had swished
favor aside
like a feathercake
upon a slide,
that she
might just once
shoot this
man grumbly
in the ear,
or perhaps
twice, since she's here,
imagine
the force,
pitchforking
the very
titter from its source
like a june
bug,
while the
stewardessae,
pink-hued
and catching themselves on,
frisked
old chameleon purple-hue,
slamming
the muh fuh
down the
flo',
and holding
cinder blocks
above his
chest, hips and knees
till his
screech
was the
connection with
the plane
and the stars
and the
organizing sea;
and his
purpose the descent
of the paltry
and the commissioned;
and his
jizz the plinth
upon which
these recusant facts skidded
and went
haywire
like too
much technical
love of
living.
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