Piano

Open the door, wax the whistle. There are pies on sale here; peaches, too. Hungarian women in pink lingerie. Mulch. Cold sores. I wrote a map to Heaven on the back of a Bennegan's napkin. Pat can't say jack shit. Kids need to be taught that sometimes pickled olives have pits instead of pimentos, lest they break their teeth. Bring it to a boil. Knives with rubber handles are easily utilized, scissors with plastic ones not so much. Means. Ends. Little pills in a tiny translucent envelope. A gorilla eating custard. Foam. Curtis, you have sand in your ears. Fat gray hippos landing on airstrips. Wheat stalks as far as the eye can see, black clouds hovering like predatory ghosts. An ingrown eyelash. Test patterns from the Eastern Bloc. Golfing atop the Sears Tower! Cuttlefish. Boogers. Time comes, every life has a climax. Slowly; slower, please. Take this tie off me. You're going to enjoy a painful death, avec bacon. Push me, shake me, thrash me, throw me. There are two beady green lights in the dark office across the way, the eyes of a modem or an alien. Frosting. I knew a guy who thought he was joining a book club and ended up recruited into a cult. There is no destiny in Pac-Man. Leather goods for sale. Did you really sleep with Arnold Schwarzenegger? Lost, found, lost again. "The Last Time" sampled by gargoyles. You put on your sunglasses now, kiddo. Hello, James, your violin died yesterday. We are in space, surrounded by hostile elements: jagged chunks of asteroid matter, blue tubes of acid. When I wake up there better be a bowl of granola at the table. Fuck, no more cans of hairspray. Carrot. Try to pretend like you're having fun, Eugene. Chapped lips. Carp. A boat motor coughs its last breath. Put on your peonies and let's play some dodgeball. The prettier you get the uglier I get. The vacuum cleaner is broken. If you touch my bowling ball one more time I'll stab you in the belly button with this fork. Reggae. The grass is slick from the morning dew, framing Geoffry Andrews's corpse in a limp funeral of seasonal ambivalence. Waking up on winter mornings, when my ankles crack they sound like a beetle's exoskeleton snapping in half.