With thumb and forefinger I examined carefully the ball peen hammer. The sparrow slid violently into third base. Night after night it was Nascar, kettle corn, karaoke. Wendy wore burlap, clapping her hands. Zinc divided the men from the boys. My mind made a snuffling noise. The forest absorbed us, knowing all along. Peg slid her girlhood toward us across the ages. When I say indigo bunting I fucking mean indigo bunting. The kiln was a metaphor Joan was fond of. The greased hog loved the attention. The orphan snapped me in the balls with his towel.
The lump in Jim’s pants was his ball peen hammer. The sparrow was a piece of meat with wings. Night laid us all face down naked in the grass and “flossed” us. Wearing burlap, Wendy stepped into the phone booth. Brad had a funny little zinc limp. My mind drank from its tank. The forest was full of gongs. Girlhood down the chimney. Did I not say indigo bunting. Joan talked on and on about the kiln, gesturing. I stood at attention, which many felt unnecessary. The orphan recommended the steak tartar.
A ball peen hammer was spending the century at the bottom of Lake Baikal. The sparrow swept crumbs with one wing, slapped at the cat with the other. Night with some spit on its chin. Wendy allowed herself to be shot from a cannon (wearing burlap). It was zinc that they found in our long johns. My mind was standing on one of its reins. Don’t believe what you’re told in a forest. Girlhood tore the Shih Tzu a new one. Kurt stepped a little too honestly from his robe of indigo bunting. We’d decided the kiln had a vagina, and searched for it. You suggested I pay attention. I cried out to the orphan. To all orphans.
With vintage 80’s pigeon shit the ball peen hammer’d been carefully caked. The sparrow was walleyed; he looked at Denise coldly. Night was crawling toward me like some kind of injured kitten. If it looks, feels and smells like burlap it still could be canvas. The bar-top was made of zinc; the gerbil sensed this. My mind kicked twice at the stall wall. Jim walked into his closet as if it were a forest. The chapter on girlhood upset us. All November babies, to be swaddled in indigo bunting. I set my beer on Joan’s kiln and she smacked me. Attention is what you will pay to your trumpet Dad said, hiccuping. The nightjar was an orphan, and sat in the highest branches.
Rewinding carefully, the police watched again what Wanda’s lips did when she said ball peen hammer. The sparrow ate pulled pork for fifty minutes. Night foamed at the mouth for the hell of it. They say Christ wore both socks and a shoulder bag made of burlap. We ran through the museum sucking zinc lozenges. Someone dressed as a nun said you have broken my mind into her omelet. When they slit open the unicorn it was full of forests. Girlhood stopped the mowers from idling in the lilac. I ask to have only indigo bunting pulled over my eyes. The kiln is loose now, and alone, and rolls unsteadily across town. Jim is demonstrating what heightened attention looks like. The orphan can only play the Liszt sonatas with a paper bag over her head.