Monday, March 31, 2008



Sometimes you can’t even get people to listen to your dreams when you tell them that they were in your dreams because, I think, they realize that whatever it was they didn’t really do it, and no matter what it is probably embarassing. I think it is all about control – it’s so hard in real life, and imagine when you are not only asleep but you are actually doing something in someone else’s dreams and it’s not even you, is their 'you.' And you are doing something that you haven’t agreed to do in any sort of formal way, and the potential for disaster is just amazing. I can see why nobody wants to listen to stories about them doing things that they don’t do. It could be embarassing, or it could be terribly uninteresting.

Now then, I can’t say this is true with everybody – I have a friend who writes short stories, they’re really great, so I imagine that he can probably tell his dream stories really well. He might even be careful about what he tells you. Still, since he writes short stories, I am not sure that I would listen to his dreams if he told me that I was in one of them, because he probably just made up what I did in the dream – maybe he is even trying to work out an idea for a short story and waiting to see how I feel about what I did in his dream. I think he is waiting for a reaction. If I say, “Wow!” or “Really??” Will I end up in a story forever? I might have to say “You should write a story about that” in case he was just innocently telling my about his dream and had no intention of writing about it, if, I mean, I liked it, and wanted to read something about the interesting things that he says that I do in short stories that he might write. If he does do something with me, though, I hope he doesn’t change my name in the story about the dream that I did something in. I also hope that whatever I do I don’t do in a dream in a story but in an actual story. I think there is a big difference. Or is there? OK, I may be splitting hairs here.

One other thought I had: I don’t think that I have ever split a single hair in my entire life. I like the way they do it in cartoons, with a shiny steel axe.


If I could write short stories, I bet I would stop dreaming entirely. It would be neat–I might miss my dreams, but I could write about anything whatsoever. I could even write a story about you, doing anything, for instance, you falling in love for the first time, or screaming and falling out of an airplane even though you are wearing a parachute.

When you say “You” in a short story you’re only perhaps talking about YOU, or, possibly, you're talking about the reader. Actually, it could be anyone. Well, anyone but me. “I” is always “Me” in short stories. When you say “I am” in a story you know you are “I” if you are the one who is writing the story. "You" is different, however. "You" is mysterious and vague. When I am writing about you, it isn’t necessarily you, and it might just not be anybody. It might just be an idea. "You" might even be a delicious oatmeal cookie. You just never know. It could be you, though.


Everything seems to be pretty much the way I left it yesterday. It must be getting late, though–I see the kids are going to school now. And Ginger is barking again, at something, a bird probably. That's a good bet. My beak feels good–I think it will be a good day. It's sunny, a good day for a little flying. I see Mrs. Kelly is going to take a walk today–you have to admire her for doing that, considering her advanced age.

Yes, everything seems to be right about today.

Don't know what that ham is doing there, though.


1) He did not do it with his feet, his dancing feet, for he did not dance.

“I do not dance!” said his dancing feet. Please make a strike through in “dance” and underscore “do not.” Which you are at it, put “I” in italics, and put all of the words in bold face print.

Use 24 pt Garamond Roman font for all and print on 25% cotton rag text.

His feet did not dance. His words danced. “It is they who dance!” exclaimed his feet, pointing at his mouth, from whence his words found spake. They pronounced it with glee, and would have danced a cha cha in happiness, but you cannot point and dance, particularly if you are pointing with your dancing feet which do not dance. No, that would be impossible. Now, let’s have a lemonade.

2) NOW

Recently I wrote a short poem which ended with the words: “Now, let’s have a lemonade.” As I read the poem again and again, I eliminated, slowly but surely, every line of the poem until I was left with “...let’s have a lemonade.” I liked that: I felt that I would look back upon this poem one day and think, “That is truly what I felt, and that is truly all I felt. The rest can go to the Devil!”

Go To The Devil. Just like they used to say in the old movies.

But it’s not over yet. What can I title this poem? For I have run out of truthful feelings. I eliminated them one by one. I have nowhere to go. I don’t want to go to the Devil. And all I have is lemonade. But I don't even have that.

I am lost.

MARCH 28 2008

I read a book
shaped like a pillow
the color of a cherry

When people say
"You look like a cherry"
I say, "You must

be talking about
my book." But then
I look

At my face, and it's true
I do. And my book is my
book–it's all about me

And I grow faint–
I want to rest
but I can't find

My pillow

Sunday, March 30, 2008


I spent most of my childhood staring at an open box of Dutch Masters Perfecto cigars.

Here are the questions I used to ask myself:

1) Where is Dutch? or sometimes

2) Who is Dutch? and

3) Why is Dutch Masters so serious? eventually I would wonder

4) Which one is the head Dutch Master? or

5) What are the Dutch Masters doing? and

6) I wonder if it is true, like Henry in Mrs. Welch’s class used to say, that the Dutch Masters were secretly saying: “I sentence you to death by hanging!” and that they were saying it to me. They look serious enough to say that. And if so, what did I do that was so bad and so hang-worthy. And then of course

7) El Perfecto? and when I found out that it meant ‘The Perfect’ I thought

8) The Perfect what? Later I started to think

9) The World is a Ghetto
until I realized

10) The Dutch Masters think that they are so perfect but they’re really stupid

I also noticed that right next to the box of Dutch Master El Perfectos stood a cache of Schrafft’s chocolate peppermints.

11) Schraffts peppermints are: el perfecto! I believe this to this day and also to this day I believe

12) The Shores Cafeteria serves El Perfecto cigars, it is true, but also, cherry jello, chocolate pudding, doughy rolls, and tapioca. Which reminds me:

13) When I had my first kiss I remember yelling: EL PERFECTO! Big mistake.

14) In the wink of an eye, the Dutch Masters appeared with a little wispy poof. In front was the Master they all called El Jefe, and he sentenced me to death by hanging and I realized that so that’s the deal and there was no way out. Help Me Help Me I cried until I realized that all I needed to do was to say I love you El Perfecto and then I would be forgiven and live forever. And so I said I love you El Perfecto and I will do so forever and so as far as what happened and what will forever be–I will let you be the judge.

15) Or was it El Producto?


all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

Thursday, March 27, 2008


I had a thought while looking at the pretend money I held in my hand while I played Monopoly. Every day

We wake up and get out of bed and do something new. But at least one day, every year, we are waking up on the very same day that we will die someday. For those of us

Without any clear plan about our lives, we don’t mind. We don’t celebrate. We do the usual. For example, we will pick up a stick and play fetch with a dog and say “Fetch

Boy!” and throw the stick as far as we can and on days like this, maybe we will throw the stick one extra time. We might throw

The stick one extra time for luck, even if the dog has gone back home, or if the dog never was there

In the first place. Maybe, especially. Happy Birthday! Isn't something we usually think of today. I had a thought today

While playing Monopoly. I will never be rich. Someday I will be married. Today I would like

The Spinning Wheel as my playing piece today. You may select the Silver Boot, or the

Top Hat. Or even the Old Man. You can have the Old Man.

You can, if you like, have whatever you want. You seem nice. I feel like I have known you for a long time.


LAST NIGHT I dreamt that I was a stately, elegant princess in a pink taffeta dress with a jewel encrusted cinch and romanesque thigh boots wearing a scarf around my waist that hung casually about me as I stood resplendent in the rich white clouds framed by five cherubic angels who were reading the newspaper intently as I stood with my golden rod in one hand and – did I mention there were actually six cherubic angels in my dream? I forgot about the sixth one because he wasn’t reading the newspaper and I had to cover his nakedness with my newspaper as best I could with my non-golden rod holding hand as I stood balanced on the blue globe earth of 1796.

When I woke up I felt all sweaty and scared. Angels do that sometimes to me. They can be a lot of work! But usually it's not that scary.

Later I tried to recreate my dream the best I could in a drawing that I made back in 1796.

I hope you enjoy looking at it as much as I enjoyed drawing it and being scared by it.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

Wednesday, March 26, 2008


I used to wonder why he wore so much lipstick. And why his hair was white on the inside, and black on the outside, like a vanilla cake with chocolate frosting. I also used to wonder about the breastplate, which didn't seem like it would offer much protection. I sometimes wondered if it was just a good luck charm–but since when do princes, especially valiant ones, need good luck? I never wondered about his Anton Chigurh haircut, because, after all, it was 1940. I did wonder a little about his Moe Howard haircut, though. And that big pink medal behind him. He must have been really good at something to win a medal that big. I don't think it is hand puppets, I mean, a medal for hand puppets, because I don't think that looks like a very good hand puppet – it's just white and lumpy and frankly it looks a little strange. If Jonathan were around, he would laugh and say: "Sorry, Gent – that's no hand puppet! Ho Ho HO!" Richard Dreyfuss would say: "This was no boating accident" while Rosey would say, "Nature, Mr. Allnut, is what man was put on earth to rise above." If it were another time and place, I might say: "Why is Hurta slumbering, in what would appear to be a pink gondola, her hair like fiery serpents?" But that time and place would have to be now. All the other ones? I can't speak to them. I just believe in holograms. I mean, now is the only time and place I know.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

Tuesday, March 25, 2008


I'm sorry. It's the first thing that went through my head this morning.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007


When you spoke of kiwis, the hair on your arm would rise up into the air.

Why do you speak of kiwis? You know that I do not like them.

I have never eaten a kiwi, but presently I am drinking kiwi juice. Oh.

Perhaps that is why you are speaking of kiwis.

The hair on your arm is dark and kind of scary.

I am reminded of Colette, whose velvet paws had real claws, according to Cocteau.

Oh! There you go again! Another comment regarding kiwis!

I am reminded again of Colette, who died in bed, overlooking the garden of the Palais Royal.

Surely, in the interim, you have not said something more about kiwis.

Perhaps it would be best if I walked outside to take the air, or had a smoke in the garden, just until the hair on your arm rested.

“Am I going out for a kiwi?” you ask. “Be still!” I say. No; absolutely not.

I will stay here, and keep you company.

Why? Because I love you. And when I consume you, as I do, I do so carefully, as one would a fresh, iced, fleshy fruit.

Why? You ask. I am reminded of Colette once more, and the gray truffle country of Puisage, which produces a truffle of extraordinary fragrance yet without a discernible taste.

No! A truffle! A kiwi has taste; as do you.

I could watch you sleep, if necessary or as need be, or speak, as I do, at times like this.

The hair on your arm, etc...

and then, interrupting, you query:


It is not out of anger or vengeance, it is simply the way to have as much as I can of you, and I mean it lovingly, and without strangeness or peculiarities; and yet...

I see fear in your eyes--as green and beautiful--à ras de terre--as Colette herself; that’s damn beautiful / the hour is late.

I must leave now. It is a short walk down the boulevard to a fruit stand, and it is a beautiful walk, even in the rain.

I shall find a special treat for you and I shall be back.

Oh yes, and a smoke as well.

I don’t mind when it rains. Please keep talking.

I’ll be back.

And, in going, I am reminded of Ravel;

Colette loved him, too.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

Thursday, March 20, 2008



This is a pose that I use often when I am on a luxury cruise liner and I am trying to spell out the ‘v’ in “I LOVE YOU” to someone on shore before the ship travels far beyond the horizon. When I am spelling the ‘v’ in I LOVE YOU with my DOWNWARD FACING DOG position–a real easy letter to do–it relaxes me. It’s important that I relax with DOWNWARD FACING DOG because I know that soon I will have to gather my strength for ‘e’which is a terrifically difficult letter to produce even with a yogi body. Almost impossible. So much so that I wouldn’t be surprised if I were to die trying to achieve the ‘e’ in ‘I LOVE YOU’ on a cruise ship someday. Still, I know in my heart, with my soon to be lifeless body, that whoever sees my attempt to achieve ‘e’ in I LOVE YOU will understand, if nothing else, that I love something, I lov something, either way, really, and that I was willing to risk everything for it, whatever it happened to be. They don’t have to actually know what it is. I don’t mind at all if they guess.


Kids love to dream that they will grow up to be rocket ships bursting through the air and that’s why they giggle with joy when they strike the Thunderbolt Pose in yoga class because it is almost as though they are about to take off from the launch pad, although they could explode on the launch pad, and they realize that because it does happen although not a lot. If it happened more than it did, kids would grow up much too quickly. They would become cynical. They would be nihilists. Tiny little nihilists. You could fit them all on the head of a pin or they could pass through the eye of a needle or whathaveyou.


The romance of the morning air and the dewy hills belies the deadly violence of anything shaped like a crescent, including such favorites as the crescent-shaped knife or the crescent-shaped pistol or the crescent-shaped machete or the crescent-shaped bayonet.

The light dapples upon the ocean on a warm summer night. It seems like the perfect time to steal a kiss. When was the last time you did that?

Anyway, the important thing is, the easiest way to disarm an assailant holding a crescent shaped knife or pistol or machete or bayonet is by executing a crescent lunge.

Once disarmed, you can exchange pleasantries, and soft cooing and such moonlighty things until you grow old and, one day, expire. Peacefully, under the moonlight, holding hands.


A useless item to own, although, if used on a regular basis, it can improve the pedal stroke.


I’ve skipped way ahead to the end now because I don’t have the patience for RECLINE HANDS TO TOE or UNSUPPORTED MARCHING. Although, the more I think about it ...


The best kind. Sometimes, when I have trouble falling asleep, I imagine that I am a scarecrow in a field of cucumbers. Someone asks me, “Don’t you mean a ‘field of melons?’” “No, of course not,” I say. “I mean a field of cucumbers.”

Really, the way to fall asleep doesn’t depend so much on whether or not the scarecrow is in a field of cucumbers or a field of melons. What matters most is with whom you are arguing about it. It has to be a pretty girl, trying to talk about any kind of food, really. She has to be sweet and kind. The food doesn’t matter. Really, I like cucumbers and I like melons. It’s not like I like one more than the other. And I don’t think a scarecrow cares that much either. And even the scarecrow, whether its there or not, doesn’t matter that much. It's all about the pretty girl.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

Monday, March 17, 2008


Good Night, Lord Nose. Sleep tight.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

Sunday, March 16, 2008


In all my trips to the grocery store, I never really considered what I would do with my eggs if I ever were to really do what I wanted to do with my eggs.

What would I do with my eggs? I don’t want to cook them. After all, I don’t like eggs. And even if I did cook them, it would be a hollow joy, because it wouldn’t conclude with any sort of eating of eggs. It would just end with trying to figure out what to do with the cooked eggs that I don’t like that I used to not like when they were uncooked eggs.

When I was a little boy, I used to think about eggs a lot. I used to imagine the twelve things that I would do with eggs. Luckily, eggs always came in cartons of twelve, so it always worked out perfectly.

Even eggs, which aren’t round, are perfect. There more of an egg shape, to be sure, but still they are perfect. Sometimes, they are even speckled, a little freckled girl. Or boy, I suppose.

Here’s what I came up with:

1) Throw an egg up, directly over your head, as high as it can go. If it stays up forever, you will be the most amazing person in the world: the man whose eggs never came back, even though you don’t like eggs.

2) Change into a light blue shirt and place an egg in your breast pocket and then smash the egg with the small of your hand and say “I want a divorce” really loud, for an egg is not forever. As a divorcee, you are now permitted to ask to change a dollar for quarters at the convenience store. Quarters are for the Laundromat at your apartment complex.

3) Attend the symphony. Carry an egg in each pocket. When the violinist strikes the crescendo of the cadenza during the concerto, take comfort in the fact that you either married the most wonderful woman in the whole world, or that someday you will marry the most wonderful woman in the whole world. You can’t have it both ways, but that’s a comfort, too. The eggs feel warm against your breast. The eggs think that you are warm. It works both ways. It’s a good marriage.

4) Place an egg on the ground in the soft grass and wait. Someday they are going to build one of those superhighways right here and then the egg will be in danger for the very first time. Although it is possible that they may build it a little bit to the left. Either way, you must live for the present.

5) Have you ever read THE ROVER by Joseph Conrad? He’s a really good writer but THE ROVER is really dull. You don’t see it around much these days. If you do, though, take a small speckled egg and place it midway point of the book. Then smash the cover closed in one quick, vigorous movement. The egg was beautiful, but now it’s not. Now it is like The Rover. I like Joseph Conrad. I just don’t like THE ROVER.

6) Hide from the police. If they say that you appear to be suspicious and ask any questions, don’t answer any of their egg questions. Say: “Whatcha saying? I haven’t seen an egg around here for days.” Make sure to hide the egg carefully in your hip pocket and remember that you hid it there before you take the bus home. Walk backwards when you see the bus coming but not until you see the bus coming.

7) Wash an egg in chlorine bleach and towel dry. When the egg is dry, compare the color and texture of the egg to your memories of being a child in France surrounded by women who worked as escorts at Moulin Rouge during the time of Toulouse-Lautrec and the eggs of course that they cooked for you there. Imagine! A life filled with the eggs of exotic dancers from France!

8) Bite down hard on an egg while receiving a tetanus booster shot from Dr. Lynn after Romeo, the Doberman, bit you on the ankle, right through the pant leg, which is slightly eggshell in color.

9) Examine your own fears. Each time that you find yourself overwhelmed by them, select an egg and throw it up in the air–unless of course, you just dreamed that you had eggs, in your dream, the one about being afraid, maybe of eggs.

10) Sit down like an egg might sit down–rolling back on the balls of your feet, curling your body in a single relaxed motion, rocking back and forth in a pendulum-like motion until your body finally comes to a complete rest. Close your eyes–relax. Don't think about the future, or that car with whatever the hell it is doing and if it is coming towards you or not, whether the driver is bald as an egg and what it must be like to be an egg, or bald.

11) I wish I could remember the name of the man who played “Fred” on the I LOVE LUCY show.

12) I even remember his character’s full name: Fred Mertz. His wife, Ethyl Mertz. And my Father, George, ordering “Ethyl” rather than “Regular” at the filling station. “ETHYL MERTZ!” I screamed. A quick smack to my fanny.

My Father’s straw hat. My Father’s Zippo lighter. My Father’s Lark cigarette.

Fred Mertz. Your character should never be more memorable than you are.

The three most remarkable things are:

1) Fred Mertz’s name.

2) Fred Mertz’s voice, which was gruff yet lovable

3) Fred Mertz’s shape, concealed in part by trousers that reached his sternum, and which in concealment resembled an egg.

The last thing that you should do:

Draw a picture of Fred Mertz on an egg.

The last thing that you should do:

Draw a question mark on the other side of the Fred Mertz egg.

The last thing that you should do:

Place the egg on the floor, and lift your leg high in the air, as though you were going to stomp the egg.

Let the egg be. Enjoy your imagination. Be memorable. Change your name. Walk away.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

Thursday, March 13, 2008


Chapter One

Next to my book about a businessman getting bitten in the behind by a shark as he crosses the street,

There’s a book about an average American family: Mom, Dad, Sis, and Rex

And they’re cupping their ears to hear the sound of a pea pod bursting open with flavor

As the farmer holds the bushel of peas steady, with both hands

He’s wearing blue overalls and a straw hat

Chapter Two

Now that the peas have burst open with flavor, they have been placed in an attractive wooden box–and they smell delicious!

Dad smiles anticipatorily. Sis smiles, too. And Rex, well, Rex smiles a dog smile, and looks towards Sis with–is it longing?

Meanwhile, Mom looks to the heavens, hoping that, when she dies, she goes somewhere nice

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

Sunday, March 09, 2008


SHORTLY BEFORE THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, John Baskerville conceived the ‘Baskerville’ font in Birmingham, England.

Birmingham, England has many children playing games with sticks and rocks in the streets which are cobbled.

The John Baskerville font is delicious, modern and crisp.

It resembles other things.

By the way, Jazzy B lives in Birmingham. He played what they call Punjabi Music. He owned a colorful purple chemise and gold necklaces.

John Baskerville didn’t realize that the American Revolution was coming.

Although John Cadbury knew about the American Revolution. He was born in Birmingham. He loved it. And he ate lots of chocolate.

Sometimes it’s easy to ignore the obvious, or not know which way something is going to go. Such is the case with John Baskerville.

It’s like when someone hits a baseball out of the ballpark and–

I almost forgot. Arthur Conan Doyle was born in Birmingham, too. His wife’s name was ‘Touie.’ He had a distinguished moustache.

Anyway, and it can land it can land with a soft ‘plop’ in the grass or it can hit you in the head and strike you dead.

Such is the way of many modern things.

Like when Jazzy B always looks down in photographs, you think he is trying to look like Mickey Rourke. Is that possible?

Modern things hover in the air, and only God knows their true destiny–only God knows they’re coming, and where they are going to land.

In this way, all things resemble the Baskerville Font.

David Attenborough, the great naturalist and writer, also lived in Birmingham. He likes the word “destiny.” I hate the word “destiny.” It’s really more of a good word for the naturalists.

And with each passing year, our fonts that reflect our world become, like our world, increasingly more modern, crisp and delicious.

They tell of the world, for example: ‘Touie’ died of ‘tuberculosis.’ Strange, eh?

The world that is difficult to understand, reflected in fonts that are modern, clean and crisp, attractive in a way that makes one yearn for the old days when everything was so hard to read and life was simple and easy to understand.

Like a flower in the cap of a farmer in a tractor as he rides through the wheat fields dreaming of men with strong, supple thighs along the cobbled English roads.

The font becomes a divining rod, a Virgula divina if you will, as well as a source of comfort for all.

Speaking of the American Revolution, is it merely a coincidence that Arthur Conan Doyle died three days after the Fourth of July? I don’t think so.

“Surely, it is destiny!” David Attenborough always says.

But he was, well, from Birmingham.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007


Outside my house there is a storm drain.

It’s so heavy that it is almost impossible to pick up.

I saw two construction workers yesterday looking at my bicycle.

I could see their thought balloons: “Man! That’s a nice bicycle!”

It’s interesting that a cat that massive found a way to get into the storm drain.

Now his ‘meow’ – it’s not a bad meow – is a combination of embarassment and despair, a slightly frightened, humbled, “I Don’t Want To Die” Meow.

I saw a quilted couch on television yesterday that I bet you could sink into it like quicksand. That’s what I think.

So I went ahead and gave the construction workers six oranges.

Although I wanted to write about Jack Kerouac in my heart, I realized that I might as well write about Abraham Lincoln for all the good it would do. I mean, all the good it would do the world and me.

How could you possibly steal a bicycle from someone who gave you three oranges a piece? That would be difficult.

I was stuck without an umbrella. I tried to think of other words for ‘lilac’ – the color – and could only come up with mulberry and eggplant. Yummy mulberries and eggplants.

One thing that they don’t teach you in school anymore is colors.

Or geography. Or food.

Jack Kerouac, though, that’s something else.

I saw a clipping of his obituary in the New York Times the other day and there were some interesting details but I kept looking a the phtoograph because there was a white line right through his forehead. What did it mean?

Or love. They never teach love anymore.

The construction workers lifted the storm drain with ease. It was amazing.

Meow! Meow! I shall not die today! I shall not die this way!
To love is to grow fat! This is what I say, dammit. Meow!

If I were to write a caption for the white line across his forehead, it would be: “Yes–All Men Are Lonely.”

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

Saturday, March 08, 2008


I decided to stay in keeping with the style of the first two Wavies for Wavy Three (Make It Long & Wavy) which is all but complete save the Table of Contents.

Table of Contents. Don't you hate them? Please, all of you people out there who hate writing Table of Contents please write me and tell me your Table of Contents stories. I am certain that there are many of us out there. It's kind of like a secret society, without the handshake. But we have that look in our eyes. It's a sad, puppy dog look. But the puppy dog is a boxer. You know, cute but mighty.


Yet though we be mighty, we are sorely afeared. We hate Contents. Where do you go from here? And from whence did we come?

Funny, though, I often think when I can't get to sleep, how 'Content' is spelled the same as 'content.'



all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007



last night I dreamed that I was walking
in the midwest and watching the torna-
does. one came out and picked me up
and took me for a little ride and left me
in a field.

“that’s not so bad.” I though, and it
wasn’t. there were quite a few bodies
there, very chalky, the color of clay, like preserved bodies in
mexico, centuries gone.

“that’s not so bad either.” I thought.
actually, it was very nice. they didn’t
look unhappy at all.

now I like tornadoes, which, they say,
destroy everything in their path.
Real Time Analytics