Travels In Time And Space

I’m in space. I like being in space. As long as I have air to breathe and gravity to fight and food to eat and recurrence and rhubarb and hedonistic things to do I’m happy. Ok. Doing alright. Otherwise, you can take your space and shove it. I need space for space. And a little time to stick it all together. Now you’ve got a habitat. I’m in the habit of habitat. I feel secure around them. And a little overshadowed by the rooster proclaiming itself king of this sentence. That’s fowl. Every moment, no matter how seemingly trivial, gives me the shiver when it hits the rocks, and the imagery of the day turns mnemonic. I will remember the hominy, and the harmony, and the panoply of harmonies in the hominy, and the homilies expounded, and the parables paralleled. A little nitroglycerin is a leviathan of effect in a tiny bottle. Think of the haiku as you would a headstone. Or a contraption for catching rainbows. Life will go on no matter what happens. This is the essence of retail. But this isn’t the time to quibble about vocabulary. I only need a little time to consider what to do with the rest of this space. Shall I listen to the Everly Brothers, or shall I invent a tool for vindication? Let me hang upside down a while and think about yesterday. The space behind the mouth completes the picture. There’s a way to say things that doesn’t cause further utterance. But I haven’t found it yet. One thing leads to another. It’s inevitable. And a little suspect. Where am I going with this? I don’t know what I’m talking about. And for that I am thankful, and for the many other things I don’t understand, but come out of my mouth as if I did. Is the monorail still running? The coast here is wonderful. I don’t have to do anything until I get to the end. But who knows where – and when – the end is? When is the when and what is the way to the end of the when when the when whens? Let it whinny. Let it climb the chimney. We will use terry for bath towels and verbs to predicate the future on its silly wheels when the time comes. And the time is coming. I can hear it echo in Waterloo Station. And I’m in Seattle. But whose keeping track of the time? The hysteria is in all the charcoal. Weep for the forest and the whistleblower. But don’t compare the coliseum to a sporidium. Unless you really mean it. And you’ve got a little Worcestershire sauce on your sleeve.