Part 2
Part 2
Red mountain finally did it.
Its aperture waggled and swanked. Heaved, cried. Unbuckled and defolded slow and exact, like a napkin snapped open by a Dinner Guest. Due to proportions, it went much slower and gave Us time to be bothered.
We needed shelter to get away from Commercial Appreciation who’d just said that this is what everybody gets for cocking up the spin cycle on the Nature Machine.
O listen, I was trying to intensify the air around Us to get a reading (but Commercial Appreciation goes on: We get Raptures and We get low-paying Landscaping jobs, the Dangers of Thresholds, and Egyptian mummification. . .)
“Do I look like a mummy, milknose?” You asked. Won’t somebody slap the silly off this teabag? Leave it to a nonlandscaper to tell a Landscaper how to scape.
“We never got mummified and ain’t gonna,” I cued. And what’s this We? We is not you, Commercial Appreciation. “So get stuffed.”
It's a pornagraphic unfolding and my stomach leaps. I swat it like a mosquito. Our other organs strut around as if there's a convention starting soon. We started tapping at the aquarium we’d been recently studying. Within it, balanced sloppily on a Danger’s dorsal-spike, was the insight we needed into the Conspicuous Evolutionary Trend in Land Mammals. I need the compression chamber You keep in Your appendix cavity. A brain has its seams puffed, arched, and hisses at the draws of friction made by the rubbing of folds against each other as red mountain unfolds.
“Been looking for you,” I said, grabbing You clavicle to draw you away from Commercial Appreciation’s latest “demonstration” of mummification procedures he was sure We’d undergone. Commercial Appreciation stands pantomiming over and over a person whipping a check out of a checkbook. “Maybe you, gauzeballs, but not Us.”
We had to stay like that when friction was thickest, didn’t We? When you were over there, right over there, somebody talking your ear right down to the floor?
I made a mistake to cut him off with the stereoplotter, one swooping assessment after the next, layer after layer of his mustache dissected and gridded and numbered until he stopped resurrecting long enough to mummify him a second time so maybe he’d stay mummified this time. Our Landscape’d had enough of his type. At some point You Stop Forgiving So Things Can Get Moving.
But every atom is a tattletale. Red mountain seizured. It started resembling a tissue swan, origamic convulsions at wing and tail. Commercial Appreciation’s blood, powdered from soaking in canning jars, smelling like pickled pigs’ feet and bone marrow, spored the air like a jackhammered dandelion.
Resurrections always stink.
Aw damn, said the Conspicuous Evolutionary Trend in Land Mammals.
This always happens when We’re about to get some insight into that guy.
We did it though, we survived our first Resurrection Plotting. We weren’t lucky, We were prepared. We unhitched the mule, birthed its mule-foal, showed it to its mother, studied its ridiculous newborn stumble to see which way it leaned before falling over and announcing that it gave up, Unable To Take Any More, theatrically thrusting its newborn legs straight up into the air, letting its tongue hang out, X-ing its eyes.
We followed the stumble pattern until we found what needed: the huge Pink Eraser that could give us shelter from the aftershock of the crime. We hacked and hewed, tunneling into the eraser to peel away satisfying pink hunks of aromatic rubber and kicking shreds and strips behind Us struck by something being Normally On Our Hands Now Being On Our Bodies. We sat in total arrest of this odor and relived some Lovely Things about boxes.
Now I remember why we took this job, One of Us Said (sniffing a wrist).
You: I understand. Red mountain is a bit of refuse left here by a bird to nest as Such Birds are driven out by land mammals. The migration patterns of these mammals speeds up when a Rapture swanks ahead, sharp curve, razorin' away the Atmosphere behind it. Rapturing Pattern = wood shaving effect.
I: this tells me a lot more about the Conspicous Evolutionary Trend in Land Mammals.
Us: It's a good thing We're not here to fix anything.
Red mountain finally did it.
Its aperture waggled and swanked. Heaved, cried. Unbuckled and defolded slow and exact, like a napkin snapped open by a Dinner Guest. Due to proportions, it went much slower and gave Us time to be bothered.
We needed shelter to get away from Commercial Appreciation who’d just said that this is what everybody gets for cocking up the spin cycle on the Nature Machine.
O listen, I was trying to intensify the air around Us to get a reading (but Commercial Appreciation goes on: We get Raptures and We get low-paying Landscaping jobs, the Dangers of Thresholds, and Egyptian mummification. . .)
“Do I look like a mummy, milknose?” You asked. Won’t somebody slap the silly off this teabag? Leave it to a nonlandscaper to tell a Landscaper how to scape.
“We never got mummified and ain’t gonna,” I cued. And what’s this We? We is not you, Commercial Appreciation. “So get stuffed.”
It's a pornagraphic unfolding and my stomach leaps. I swat it like a mosquito. Our other organs strut around as if there's a convention starting soon. We started tapping at the aquarium we’d been recently studying. Within it, balanced sloppily on a Danger’s dorsal-spike, was the insight we needed into the Conspicuous Evolutionary Trend in Land Mammals. I need the compression chamber You keep in Your appendix cavity. A brain has its seams puffed, arched, and hisses at the draws of friction made by the rubbing of folds against each other as red mountain unfolds.
“Been looking for you,” I said, grabbing You clavicle to draw you away from Commercial Appreciation’s latest “demonstration” of mummification procedures he was sure We’d undergone. Commercial Appreciation stands pantomiming over and over a person whipping a check out of a checkbook. “Maybe you, gauzeballs, but not Us.”
We had to stay like that when friction was thickest, didn’t We? When you were over there, right over there, somebody talking your ear right down to the floor?
I made a mistake to cut him off with the stereoplotter, one swooping assessment after the next, layer after layer of his mustache dissected and gridded and numbered until he stopped resurrecting long enough to mummify him a second time so maybe he’d stay mummified this time. Our Landscape’d had enough of his type. At some point You Stop Forgiving So Things Can Get Moving.
But every atom is a tattletale. Red mountain seizured. It started resembling a tissue swan, origamic convulsions at wing and tail. Commercial Appreciation’s blood, powdered from soaking in canning jars, smelling like pickled pigs’ feet and bone marrow, spored the air like a jackhammered dandelion.
Resurrections always stink.
Aw damn, said the Conspicuous Evolutionary Trend in Land Mammals.
This always happens when We’re about to get some insight into that guy.
We did it though, we survived our first Resurrection Plotting. We weren’t lucky, We were prepared. We unhitched the mule, birthed its mule-foal, showed it to its mother, studied its ridiculous newborn stumble to see which way it leaned before falling over and announcing that it gave up, Unable To Take Any More, theatrically thrusting its newborn legs straight up into the air, letting its tongue hang out, X-ing its eyes.
We followed the stumble pattern until we found what needed: the huge Pink Eraser that could give us shelter from the aftershock of the crime. We hacked and hewed, tunneling into the eraser to peel away satisfying pink hunks of aromatic rubber and kicking shreds and strips behind Us struck by something being Normally On Our Hands Now Being On Our Bodies. We sat in total arrest of this odor and relived some Lovely Things about boxes.
Now I remember why we took this job, One of Us Said (sniffing a wrist).
You: I understand. Red mountain is a bit of refuse left here by a bird to nest as Such Birds are driven out by land mammals. The migration patterns of these mammals speeds up when a Rapture swanks ahead, sharp curve, razorin' away the Atmosphere behind it. Rapturing Pattern = wood shaving effect.
I: this tells me a lot more about the Conspicous Evolutionary Trend in Land Mammals.
Us: It's a good thing We're not here to fix anything.
posted by the landscapers of at 24.9.06
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