Intro 0! 
————.      camouflage

J0 like

unbelievable

column volant was above all ageless he commanded attention if only for his charm which is to say his utter inability to imagine that which comes after death = total compromise.

volant —pronounced like the second syllable in boatswain, as in epitaph to a dog, Cool Britannia.

“Not his real name,” said As if propped on an Ottoman, pure conjecture, inter Alia. Moving darkly as if that verb applied to the adjectival form

“your ax?” Beyond basics, absolute values in bed bath and single pieds-a-terre— the army surplus habit hardly helped matters— and yet anyway he moved it was for the unminded guerilla unit, that of self-mastery

“The radio?”

Shiela had two feet on the dash as if one in the glove weren’t enough and he’d told her not to bother or rather to know better, one precluded the other— he told her. once he heard of read that some girl some poor barely-legal once snapped in two that way

“Why not you?”

“Dial-a-villain.”

“And whose army?”

Yea and so it was over like finally, she’d finally told Mr — to go wraith to out-Chaplin the unsubtle dead

“So he’s not…”

“I don’t even want to talk about it.”

A drag from the lit-stick spoke subtle epiphanies begotten not made

“Genghis.”

“Genghis?”

His name had been Temujin nobody knew a Genghis before and nobody ever knew a Genghis since he was just Genghis. But that was his element he was a guy who had the skull-and-knuckle to name his own and summon his guts and perform the caesarean on top. There’s no choice in the real world and no time to take. And yet…

Sheila kept fingering the dial, “you gonna fuck it?”

I said.

Nothing else but choice Christ. Country-rock cannibalized contemporary, chopped and slopped urban from the undertakers. The horror.

Share piteous (Re)X

1./the garden goers

His is the mod set reveling—in a bed made for cheaper indigo and evil sleeping. I made way down St.-Quince to a place called for one Ed Jr., who the elder was I didn’t know and nonetheless: Act 1, Scene 1—enter. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.The inn was mad Boxing Day like a white mass for a gin-addled Eden, I’m kidding—

Spotted Sib (who-is-called-Cardinal sans language. He says, “This is one’s called a party, this one’s called ‘can I take your picture’.” 

I siddown---

“You too, do this like a brute-- you were a scab always,” unlikely to cut but I figure.“You worry about bruises.” Oh, OK.Then this, “for me?”It’s a simple one, I told him, simple-simple. So-so there’s no need for vowels. Over-and-out between any-end Narrows, there could be a hill, suites for the nonverbal in-between altercations“Royally.” I didn’t even ask if we were in—and there was yet a sense of hesitation between consonants. I took the century to grab the vista: it wasn’t so much body as it was landed breast; they were the haunted nudes everywhere; women and others, men and each, two-by-twos among them. Strictly casual adulthood only—colliding eyes glancing shyly

2./ from hell, dragg—net.

City-sleepers rank among the lowest of the low without apparent comatose. Ver thought J. L. was one of these; he snored, vindictive. It was his revenge, she thought; his from beyond the night’s tabled grave, the bed; too even, too small, with him and his night-posture.So-- "interesting"-- she got up, to make a deck-of-cards, as if that’s what she called a nightcap or a glad sandwich. But she didn’t eat and didn’t want to—only taking glassed effervescence. The night was medieval, 0200—300 hours.“They tell you not to look at the clock,” J. L. had said, she remembered.“The what?”“The clock, when you wake up. ‘Time, huh’?” He made the face. He was always making faces, the mock, the Brothers Grimm. “At night, you’re not supposed to look. It’s bad for the insomnia.”“It’s bad.”Yup. “For the insomnia.”Oh, OK.The minutes wrinkled; and she looked out the window as if it held history or a dream beyond doldrums. Theirs was an apartment on the third storey of a twin-house villa TKTK She thought of turtles, one particular she saw-- in night's fevered mind she’d had as recently as two months prior—the turtle was dead, smashed in half or to bits, as if "I'll tell you about my mother"-- and like if run-over --- by the ever-unticketed or maybe by the cruel equestrian kid on a bike somehow gallantly streaming.The dream infected vaguely