K. Silem Mohammad
The Grizzly Bombs
Start yelling how Quetzlcoatl turned pink when the bouncing
ball tore a nude hole in the fourth grade. Or when you
became a vermiform shill, a rigid designator in shoulder
pads, about a sarabande named for Houdini. It's all about
the trombones, Mr. Ranger, sir.
But the root of the problem is more like a bike horn: it
colonizes the sixty-four Crayolas that are raped and evolve
until they can learn to crawl, playing their sunbeams over
the goop in Quonset huts, or educational box kites. Suppose
I were baking a Stetson, or had been buffaloed by a parakeet
who just thought she'd argue some bible: why therefore would
I have succumbed to the oracular marvels of a farmwife's
Novocain, afforded on this knelt-upon Tuesday on a gouty
afternoon in March in the Year of Our Lord Negative Two
Hundred and Six, thirty-seven hours after the "fact"?
The rest is pure mush-mush. The grave of Bowser promises a
new decimal system; it says we get a Thinkpad with Czech
participles. The prayer of an astronaut goes unanswered, and
there goes his head, blazing a line of excellent late
Henrician secretary across the Knight-Ridder scoreboard.
And it all began right here, in Bear Country, USA. A famous
green cadaver has the isolation tanks to prove it.