JOB OPPORTUNITIES AT THE SMITHSONIAN

Sept. 28, 2002

Type: discussion

When X walked into the office that day, it knew
something was up.
Y stood on the threshold, kneading its hands, wringing
a sheaf of
palindromic reports on neologistic coinages. "Moom," Y
said in
greeting, though X had never heard it speak that way
before. Are
you okay? X asked it. "Bab," Y replied. "Sis mam did
lol."

If the sky peels back to show what
furs drench the sepulchre tonight
while clouds are nude pink flesh and
bubbles gurgle aggregate babble,

then the sky pinches over a quarter 'til,
hiding in healing the Lima we knew
as children. Or else, Macchu Piccu, while

babble aggravates a gravity cooled and
vacated of concatenation, the newly
pinched flash of clouds flowing over
our childhoods' children molded from

Brad and Brittany's engagement party was at a quarter
to nine. To
get there on time, Y knew it had to take the commuter
train fully
down the basin to job opportunities at the
Smithsonian, get off
at the innocence of insteps flexing cheddar gravel in
chili
mentation, amble back past a carton of macaroons just
subjectively basking in the sepulchre's grim iced
patina, and
then weave cautiously through pop bub gag tit. It
would take at
least half an hour, traffic notwithstanding. To
prepare for the
morning frenzy, Y had sent a clandestine e-mail to X
outlining
its fervent belief in the ominous impotence of Brad
and
Brittany's engagement party. "Radar gog pap toot!" It
read in
part. "Dad ada kook tots, moom lol gig foof!" That
aside,

Macchu Piccu keeps flow from walling in
the children who mistake their eyes for
a span of time spitting out tizzie boots
to further walking pneumonia down to the

river's urge. On the savannah, teal tufts
of cloud ovulate frenetically, keeping time
with an uneven line breakage that renders

all points hopeless, even in this feline
electrical storm. Our childhood, fully
clothed, seems a twisted and a muffled
thing to me now. Nobody said this would be

=====

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