The Paragraph
They started shooting at me when I emptied the rectangle of Jell-O into the skillet and began to flip it like a pancake. Bullets whhizzed by my head and all I could think of was what happened to the olive oil?
Heckling bus boys. Dogma of silence. A hallucinogenic shriek...
For ammunition I used pots, pans, spatulas, cutlery - whatever I could get my hands on. I hurled them at my attackers as I stumbled out the back door, picking off one after another.
Out in the street, the gangsters and the flatfoots drew their Tommy guns and masturbated into the gutters. Doors slammed, cars crashed, mouths gasped, pigeons and bats kamikazed into store windows.
I stumbled into an intersection. "Who took the olive oil!" I exclaimed, and slipped in a puddle of olive oil...
The mind is the asshole of the body. Shit explodes into the psyche with every birdlike twitch of the neck, with every lick of image and scent. Synaesthesia of the bowels will be the death of meaning and terror... Nietzsche hid behind his mustache. If he could've, he would've grown it until his face disappeared behind its broomhead bulk. Otherworldy pusses and mugs... Klonkk goes the sound of a frozen body falling to the ground according to The Dictionary of Comic Book Words on Historical Principles. I keep a portable version in my pocket and take it with me everywhere I go. Sometimes I drink bouillon. Sometimes the wet fingers twiddle so fast they cease to exist... Telephone poles rise into the lemon yellow sky and the sky is sliced apart by a vast grid of sharp copper wires. Blue herons time lapse east to west dripping jowl juice all over the ornithologists attending the county fair. Herons aren't bad - they taste like frog legs, which, gnawed to the bone and arranged just so, can support as much as two tons of hot air. Sweet pickles bring on the dry heaves. Zoos smell funny. Too many hunger artists and only one goddamn zebra. No elephants at all...
I got up and pushed through the crowd that had gathered around my would-be corpse. They started shooting at me when I climbed between the humps of a camel and giddyaped it with my spurs. Camel activists are the worst kind. All they care about are skinny legs and desert suns...
