"OK" said the day

by Brendan deVallance
Section 2

Still trying to get it right.



The paper is laughing at me as I write this. But I am not dissuaded. Even paper needs a good laugh now and then. Let it be known that I am a friend to all paper. Paper is good for a lot of things. I know how to treat paper. Treat it well and you have a friend for life. Art and writing are both very good wastes of paper. Trash axe for 50, days don’t speak when I listen. Ear to the ground, nose to the grind stone. Protected by the danger. Like sand paper to the senses. I’ll write my next book on sandpaper, see how that comes out. Bloody fingers already, blood on the inside. Buckets of it in circulation. Smash, crash, crumpled and spindled. Rolled and creased, rumpled and spoiled. Violence against the flat sheet will not be tolerated.


Trouble as the day is long. Brain flame and all that goes with it: the good and the bad. Things on fire (firewood, marshmallows), things in flames (credenza, tree). How do the tastes prevail? We’ll meet and then eat, what’s wrong with that? Keep the home fries burning. You can not know all the days the devil has off. Just try to play the cards close to your vest, hope canaveral. Sit fast in the city of your choosing, then live there. See the sights, the city never sweats. Hold tight and fly right. The streets will lead you to it, but the good things are always a ways away. Not in my backyard. Sentence says it all, says a lot (I still think a lot should be one word, am I alone here?). Well the day turns itself off at night, a moments peace among the bloodshed.

  3   Not in charge. Not in charge of it. Annette is a good name for the fisherman’s daughter. So I follow along closely, wondering. Sometimes there isn’t a lot a person can say. But there is always a lot to think about. And everyone has to be somewhere. So I am here, right here. Just me and the breeze blowing by. Trees of earth, Tree tells me so, tree don’t leave me. Me? Is it me? Is it me against the tree? From what I can see there is a battle raging, the towering tree. But me, I’m not moving. Standing still to join in the play. Long rocks and sidewise looks, hands in the hooks. I will make my way in the world. It’s like carrying a tray with too much on it. Try not to trip and fall into a pile on the floor. Some days you eat, some days you eat the tray.  
4   I’m on an angry boat on an angry sea. Looking back at the shore line. Go easy on me please. It is like I am made of paper. Paper boy in the rain. Water verses the puddle, puddle wins every time. But as the puddle dries the puddle dies. And as daylight comes I’ll quit working for the moon. Can’t stand the wages. But the sun, now that is real work. Let us see what the world can offer. Let us taste the track upon which we ride. To know the underside. Hysterical side of life, not moving.
Let us feel the fortunes as we spend them. “I will put it off until tomorrow if I can”, he said softly to himself. The world tearing by as though he were standing still. A doorknob has to do what a doorknob has to do. Shredded into bits, the bits of oblivion. Scattered by the wind.
  5   Bread roll of trains length. My favorite phrase in French: Petit pain de trains le long. This is as the robots say it. And only the robots will understand it. Although I’m not sure what would be delivered under these circumstances. Don’t be so Thursday about everything. A place can’t love you back, not the way a dog can. Triumphant but in flames. The oven calls and I answer the call. Heat inside, from the inside out. Baked. Serious things, the kind that happen to serious people. Scars across the face of it, pitted with repulsion. Don’t turn away dear one, don’t turn away. This time Jesus is in the gravy. The highway looms large for those who try to cross it. What else is a person to do? The finest days of finest lives. I’ll have another pint of glory please.  
  6   My fist—the moon. A hand sky smacking against the horizon. Candy heels not so serene, march against me. I am weathering the storm as Me Not Zombie, I hear them scream. Dancing like wine to my eyes, I have bought in. The whale is not moving, the whale is sleeping, and floating under the waves. Dead as good as sleeping. Flag as it flies, unfurl me. Let me wave to the amber, it waves back. I hear a country falling sung to the tune of ‘Can’t Go Back’. I’m my own monkey
and I will endure. Me, them, one and lost. I don’t make the rules I just break them. Looking inside I find not just another empty hat, just the emptiest hat of all time. Special. And I continue bowling in the wind against my better judgement, all odds. Call in case of fire, Me Not Zombie.
  7   Hi noon. Where has the day gone? Is butter in my eye a cure for something? I think it should be. I’m working backwards with the cures. Come up with the cure, see what it fixes. The splintering sound of the business of the day, how did it get this way. I’ll be back again tomorrow. Why does beauty have so many vowels? And can I get home from here? So many questions, I know, and you come here
for answers. But of all the places to have been left off the maps. Why can’t I find it? Sincere methods of diligent searching, see what turns up. Not all journeys start with a single step. Sometimes a fall down the stairs is first up. This is also a good way to end a journey. I’ll head for the low road on my high horse, see where that gets me.
  8   Have another drink. Rinse, repeat. Seekers of happiness, looking under all rocks. Sometimes looking straight up, heading straight down. I’m not staying, I’m not quartered (not yet anyway). Divided, quartered. Lost ship at sea. Sea what I mean. You can lead a horse to an art gallery but you can’t make him crap in it. All asunder, all asunder. The world gets mad, but it gets mad very slowly. The bed gets made, but mostly I leave it in a rumpled mess. A sad hand played to perfection. Triumphant return, I’d love to make one of those someday. Return to the site of former glory. Ostensibly arranged as the deranged will order it. My sorry stand-off against the hollow who wallow. Can’t make it, can’t break it, can’t cheat it to beat it. Bottoms up this time (for now).  
  9   For the sake of old times, don’t touch that dial. Idiot Dreamer you can have my lunch money. I have bigger fish to fry. “Another glass of milk Honey?” Let’s spill another drink on the edge of my drain-train- brain. All aboard, heading downtown. The last of the midnight terabytes with a crumpled segue before the deluge. No wrists for the wicked. Momentary fiasco, minor setback. That’s a lot of Idahos to go through. Standing on the corner of What thee Fuck Blvd and Who Cares Drive I look for the overstated and obvious. Oblivious to the obvious. Small steps, take plenty of them. Getting there is half the battle. The pint and the glory. My stumble will be remembered for years to come. Felldown Stares and all he has come to, come to this.  
  10   Bone crush and go. Pedestrian on the causeway, running. Man is drawn to this, and man is drawn to that. All the world’s a stage except when your home alone. Wait, strike that, turns out there is a stage there also. Man beaten senseless by group of men with commas. Fractured limbs against the daily treadmill. I want freedom but I want it delivered to my door. I don’t want to have to actually do anything for it. “For crying outloud”, I say that sometimes even though I know that it doesn’t seem to mean anything. But after all this: I still want noise. I want noise please. May I have the noise? I must hear the drums, feel the drums. ‘Til it all comes crashing down. Crashing in the silence that comes after. After the dot dot dot . . .  
  11   The dead don’t need killing. “What month is it anyway,” I thought to myself? For the life of my life I can’t feel the bones in my body, can’t taste my tongue in my mouth. This is a long way to go just to get here. Today the brain’s on fire, but not in flames. Smoldering really. A jolt to the veins reigned in. Perpetual moments continue to find me. Once again, here. I really just want to find a nice avocado, give it a good home. I’ve seen the inside of world and, well, really it’s just a lot of dirt on top of more dirt. The moon in the sky agrees with me. I can see it in the staring silence. Winter will not win this time. I have a serious plan. Hands made of wind can not guide you. Remember: you will die one day. Unless you are already dead, then sorry about that.
  12   Fire is the opposite of you. Thick wispy and not run down. My thoughts often run down stream. And the proof is in the pudding, 80 proof? Yeah, that will do. 80 proof pudding and a handkerchief to match. Don’t catch fire. Fire, fire is the opposite of you. If you light a match and run, well you know what happens. I like to concentrate on the details of the unnecessary kind. That is where the heaven is. A lost pack of cards, a hand on your shoulder. Cigarette me latter, cigarette me now. A handshake deal and the world can be yours. A stand back heart attack, into the arms of your baby. A good groovy feeling deep inside. The bloody severed hand waves back and fire is the opposite of you. I’ll wave good bye to the ending. With all that is left of the bones, waving and fire.  

The light went dead in her eyes. The screams faded out, the hand waits to do as it is told. Good grief for sound situations left unattended. “I’m sorry”, those words ring out through the gapping hole. Handed your hat less the ceremony. The sky will stay silent tonight. I look at the world as it lies before me, but does the world look back? I only hear the crashing of the atoms, no one speaks. Nothing to say really. The weather has its patterns. The cycles of the moon. I will eat what I will eat for dinner. But then this is always true. It sounds like this: End of rainbows baby, end of rainbows. It was then that beams of light poured from my fingers, oh wait, no, I just turned on my flashlight. Why are you like that? Like what? Like this? Yes, why? Not sure.

  14   It’s always today somewhere. See of pain. You don’t just ask the dead to stop being dead. I will not listen to the voice that comes from the center of my tooth. I may have to have it removed. Like 1,000 whatevers knitted into a sweater. You wear it well. I will take the twisted steel and straighten it out. Make a party out of the wreckage. But it’s not all ice cream and rainbows, eat confetti and shit out a parade. I have places to be, I can’t just sit around here all day marking time. You need something to show for your time here, a parting gift. Parting shot over the bow. Your present comes wrapped in a ribbon and bow. Your ship comes in. Sea of paint and the boat that does not float on it. Perhaps a boat made of paint brushes will tell a different tale, set sail, set sail.  
  15   Awake dear bastards, awake. The snow ain’t gonna melt on it’s own now accord. Ye must get ye to movin’. The sun as it sets to shinning will surely amount to much. Suns and all there potential, they seem to do a lot with what they are given. Isometric Tendencies (my new band-m.n.b.) will live to rule. And famous fool proof methods will send us into the desired level of oblivion. As the Earth fades off into the sunset I get a small sense of relief (or as the trees call it re-leaf). Busted Flush (m.n.b.) will see you into the crevices. Hunt you down and kick you. Of the Blue Jay, well I’ll take the screams and mark it down as a song. Live life: that is the meaning of the song. Ford the Stream (m.n.b.)—that doesn’t mean drive across it, for crying out loud.  
  16   Three quarters idiot isn’t going to cut it anymore. All idiots must be full on from this date forward. Deviations will not be tolerated. Post-haste: Oh my dearest one, My find. Lovelorn in a locket no longer. The way you shine, miles away. Still hearts take flight, and alight the sky’s night. But the the the the flames are not on fire. Heat does not always come with a flame. A knife with a rainbow shape, straight into my center. Intent? Align me, align me, devise a plan and spring it on me. Do: Hold the door open for others to enter. Don’t: Shake an angry fist at the bad drivers and walkers. Rocket knife with solid blade: into my heart, into my heart. Ok, now I’m bleeding. Dear doomed people of Earth. The way you shine, see you from miles away.  
  17   Frozen grin, that’s how they came at me, frozen grin from ear to ear. Stranded on the lost shoals with the feet in burning sands. Gaze across the water. Do I seek the other side? Swim or stand (remain). Screaming at the speakers will not change the music. Dancing on graves should be limited to ones own grave. What’s the recipe for that? Is your fence made of wood? Running through the fields in red shoes. Slowly moving towards death. I burn my own self in effigy. My chair is a funeral pyre. Smoldering thoughts that will not set you free. “It was going to be my masterpiece,” oh how many times I have said these words in my mind. The annihilation of time and space, your dream on every surface. Raise a glass to summer of violence not yet realized.  
  18   When streams turn to screams the earth is no longer crying. Don’t fear the dirt, that is what the planet is made of. The rain is just for the mud making. And it spins and spins and it spins. Don’t run when you feel the light in your eyes. Stand and squint. Charles Bronson worked the fuck out of that one. Ice knife, you can not kill me on a summers day. And I like it that way. Stand up and take it, monkey wrench says so. Monkey wrench tells me what to do. I’ve gone brash to a fault. But I follow the wrench. Give me enough rope and I’ll do with it what I will. Picture of a gun in my wallet. If the dog can’t smell you it sure as hell won’t bite you. I fade to the back like ice that came before spring. Lost to the surface, a dry death. Evaporation, not unlike my own faculties.  

Angels eating ice cream, situation normal. I’ve seen the party, seen the picnic, eaten the food. Beaten the rug. “I just don't want to live in this world without my gun,” said the gunless one. Crushed by the wheels, come on, it's fun, it's fun. Fell in the river, didn't drown, cried 'uncle' in the night, hit us hard and solemn. It goes like this . . . . Bloody fists and wry smiles, I can feel the pull. Heads busted, kicked and screaming. I don't want to live in this world. Giving it my best shot. Heard round the world, sounds of the improbable cadence. Let us make just one dollar more. Someday to the ice: “I wanna be an Ice Machine, the coolest thing you've seen”. Crawl to arms, but not the killing kind. The kind of sound an Angel makes.

  20   Don’t let your feet get bored. If they do, your not doing it right. As much as it wants to be, sitting is not an activity. Sidetracked on my way to the end of it all. Turns out the road to the apocalypse is not paved. Of course my town has similar asphalt conditions as a matter of course. The world I live in is unrelenting, and now you’ve complicated my vision again. As I write this my eyes are glazed like a strawberry donut. Makes . . . . it . . . . . hard . . . . . to . . . . write. My next book I will write with a canon across the buildings of a small town. The seas temperament is like a lions loose tooth, I am that tooth. The tooth as it floats on the surface of the sea. In retrospect I threw caution to the wind, I didn't realize I could actually hit it.

  21   Desperate mansions (Manoirs désespérés) seething with anger. Empty hallways contemplating the reserve. On my way to forever, past the angry polka-dots. Deliver the excellent particle and the divine will ensue. I seek to find, look to see, listen to hear. Stand close, but not too near. Look up, down, but never crossways. The handgun is not the elixir for sound sleep. Bullets are noisy even in a cold chamber. Dead is not often dead, and alive is not always living. Shrill voices cut through the night like jets through the sky. As the wind blows across the sill the house remains quiet. Rest easy house, the night is not your faucet to control. And the house does not sleep at night. The alibi is air tight as you would expect as the soundlessness resonates.  
  22   What is that sound the Sun makes? That crunching chewing sound? Is the Sun eating the solar system? Burning a hole straight through me. Believe me, I want the Sun, but I plan to keep it at a distance. And I have seen the light. Light through the shades on the brightest of days. That compacted mass of particles you ordered has arrived. And with that . . . The eyeballs of hell are on us. They are the fine print readers. My car is in the shop, but I’ll get by. Satan and the automobile, the stories I could tell. The details that will make you sorry you are alive. And the passing buck is just a phase. Live a little why don’t cha? It’s along way back from the brambles of the Sun. Best to travel at night, best to travel at night on days like these.  
  23   Pretending to know about ice cubes is not a crime. And now it will be, as it should have always been, my life’s work. Sometimes I sit there, staring off into space, sometimes I do this with my eyes closed. Keeping in mind that the race car won’t kill you unless it hits you, I move to the edge of my seat (edge of the universe). Making a play for second base, I hear the sphere approaching in slow motion. But time moves at a different pace depending on where you stand. Stuck to the roof of my mouth like a peanut butter hurricane deluge. I find comfort in the long walk home. The loss, the travel and the arrival are to be ignored. End of the day, end of the sentence, forgotten (ignored) death wish alarm and the tiny, tiny (small) dot.  
  24   Standing near the aviators field, standing near the aviators field, standing near the aviators field and the world at it’s end. I was there when the cannonballs did fly. Where were you? Where were you? All I saw and all I felt. Words could not describe the feelings that I felt. Where were you when the cannonballs flew by me, in that war so long ago? I was standing by the aviators field. And I was turning the live to stone with my hammer and my pick axe and my alternating current. I’m a road gravel supertaster if you didn’t know. Stuck on the ground with my head in the clouds, stars in my bars and eyes on my frown. The endless churn of everyday life. The mark it leaves as I stand in tears near the aviators field.  
  25   Fun is an illusion. It does not exist accept in the vacuum or your own recollections (record collections). It can not be quantified. More often than not it is really not even fun while you are having it. Did I mention that my microscope just burst into flames? Now it’s getting hot in here and I am going to have to open a window or a minnow or something. Nothing another beer won’t solve. The sand that sticks to the bottom of my feet as I walk is like the drug coursing through the addicts veins. It is not enough to just brush it away. You must remove all thoughts of it’s existence. There is not a good time to be sitting at a desk toiling away. If you like, I could come over to your house and write this on your kitchen table.  
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