The good films that were Hollywood-like, but not Hollywood at all.

 

 

"We'll just have to get someone who speaks your language."

sometimes no news is good news. emphasis implied.

 

 

Sometimes, mayhap, no news is good news, or the media could be trying to embarrass you by harassing your son, not to mention he has some shady deals, but mostly just to embarrass papa bear.

country bissuts.

 

Country biscuits, steaked with gris and buttah, babies, for the good of all, for the good of getting back to it, for the good of having it off, for the good of getting it on, and further, its something to put down the gullet.

Any source of worry has absolute authority over the worrier, but does that knowledge edify?  The question then is to whether one intentionally gave over control of himself or herself, so easily.

I forgive Darnell for being a cornhodler.

 

 

Rest easy gentle knight.

The June 6th Investigation. The Answerection.

It was Darnell.

All along.

He said,"they is flahs on dis".

And I yelled across the way, "throw them in the trash."

Again.  "Dey flahs all ovah dis."

"Put them in the trash.  It's okay.  I have more."

I told you.

My rosey-rosey buns, sticky, sticky buns, jiggered up the steps, down the steps, draining, filling customer items, orders, work orders, special requests, ordinances from God.

A lady screamed at the entry door, "ITS NOT WET".

And it was a torrential downpour.  I got drenched taking my remaining donuts to the truck.  And I sat there, in the humid air, sweating, eating several donuts, staring through a film of rain at a little red Thunderbird sitting in front of me.

It had duct tape.

Rosey, rosie, buns.

I said, "I forgot my donuts."

Darnell, blank eyed, and I mean, just the blankest little empty charcoal robot eyes, like a teddy bear eyes, "did you forget something?"  And I was taken aback at how empty those eyes seemed.

I bought tampons and Mountain Lightning, checked to see if my logins on the outdoor sale sign were still right, and started my countdown for the homeward journey.

A maple tree had toppled, and we talked kind of Shakespearean about it, in our own way, chirping and prattling, 

ratta tatta 

talkedy 

dooing 

over what our God and creator 

was so preiminently doing.

And June 6th, the date in question?

I had From Hell stretched open on the steering wheel, in a parking lot, in Florence.

Forgetting.

The human flattulence.

That tossed.

My grommets.

"Roont."

"Your grannie."

They always said that the manager had sold some sweet, sweet grommets, but I never knew much of such, and I generally sucked up inside myself, with a little nicket of anxiety that was forming into a kind of kidney stone pearl of its own.

"Who told you to do that like that?"

"The other guy."

"Who, I done asked?"

"The one having sex with the manager."

You don't toss my sweetrings without consequences, despite whatever mental condition, handicap, accidents of nature, and the indignity of wearing the manager shield.

I was sitting in Florence, and it wasn't my problem.  I STILL had my grommet despite every effort from THOSE PEOPLE.

and its always THEM isn't it?  THEM, for the conspiratorially minded.

Darnell.

185 pounds of nothing in a pair of 30 dollar boots.

"It wasn't wet, Darnell.  They said.  One of them said."

"Why did you ask?  You can get fired for that.  Go to the office."

"I didn't ask, Darnell.  That's the cosmic secret, isn't it?  I didn't even have to ask, sir, because they just screamed it out in public at the storefront."

But he's probably in the nursing home these days, and I can say to him what was said of so many others.  "It is what it is."

Time and circumstance calls on all, by and by.

*He through a carton of grommet in the garbage.

*The garbage was "in the bag."

*The part time guy claimed he had traded emails with "the white house".

*I never did peg which one, or even how many, had sex with whichever female mgr.

*Did they fall asleep after they supposedly had sex?

*Seems like "playing dead" so you don't have to "talk about your feelings."

*They screamed it wasn't wet.

*I had once forget the sweetrings, but got them back, two cartons, one of which, Darnell, fudgemuffin, tossed into the garbage can, into an approved can liner.

*The bag in the garbage can is called a "can liner".

*They said it wasn't wet, but my windshield told a different story.  I think it was because I lived in a different town, but I can't be sure.  Something about the collective unconscious, and all.

the perceptual bubble that some of us call "now".

 

"An aloof rock star".

harassment

but not for you, gunslinger.(There are other worlds than these.)

chaos rejiggers itself into some sort of pattern of normalcy,

and that we call, with some sort of stupid pride, "Democracy."

It was like, the very breast of reality had cajoled from its blouse and landed squarely, some 30 feet away, between my lips.  And just like I offer commentary, but am not a commentator, I had written a novel, yet wasn't a writer.

Grandmas house, you know.

"The more things change, the more they stay the same."

Time at some point collapsed into itself forming a perceptual bubble that some of us call, "now".