INTERVAL TERRA MINUS
We are leeches, the roar of greasepaint, the smell of the crowd maurauding our senses, as we search for the next best thing. Mother, a purple character at the best of times, was in bed with the galleycat, to the tune of the promenading poodles who were carrying their leash hopefully around and around... never give up, the poor little buggers. Through the keyhole, I could see the bunion on her foot. The man in a bizarre mask was reciting Shakespeare over her naked body and in competition with the dogs grr-ing My father rarely came home. Busyness calls, he liked to say. When I told the housekeeper about the bedroom terrapin, she was hooked onto the Bat Segundo podcast. She unplugged and said, "Your mother wears Army boots." I was in a muddle till I realized that she was talking about foot deformities.
"Define snark." The housekeeper was staring into space, tapping a pencil to her uneven teeth. Even she imagines herself a writer, putting down horrendous tales of bisexual vacuum cleaners. "Visually," I replied, "a Snark must resemble either a Mobius strip or a time-eating ouroboros. Or maybe it’s like that third-eye fucked-perspective illustration of a tuning fork with three prongs or two depending on how you look at it." I did not know then that in the next month, my mother would be dead, and that I would receive all her unpublished books.
bisexual vacuum cleaners...the latest tool for serial scrubbers.
Miss Snark looks out the window to see what planet she's on..yes, Rabbitania home sweet home.
Scoring to come