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Overloading the Machine

Under My Rug

October 27, 2001

Everything's great, thanks.
I went to write a letter.
It's insurmountable. Look over there.

No high-protein diet energizes
the wrapped loaf. The swept sea.
A four-cylinder
means two are striking.

Nose for the present,
you on time,
deliberating,
my favorite mug.
The soundtrack is out.

But if not for noise and valleys,
where could we debut? Mere
possession of facts is face.
But count some up;
cool and garnish.

"What's this? Trix? Aunt! Trix? You? You're after the prize! What is it?" He picked up the box and studied the back. "A glow-in-the-dark squid! Have you got it out of there yet?" He tilted the box, angling the little colored balls of cereal so as to see the bottom, and nearly spilling them onto the table top. "Here it is!" He hauled out a little cream-colored, glitter-sprinkled squid, three-inches long and made out of rubbery plastic.

-- James P. Blaylock, "The Last Coin"