The doctors with their storm bags. Bags of winds, bags of evil vapours,
bags of subtle shadowy beasts who suck and eat evil vapours.

And so the dreamers return to their pens.

Have a care for the fairies. Pay the fairy fare before climbing into
the bridge with Karen. Karen the boatman, circling the cold rocky
coldcock planet of Pluto. This is where souls go for a punch in the
face. Where they go for a time to work off their evils. To make snow
fortresses, then tear them down. Over and over and over. To gag forever
on the blackness of space. Gagspace without an ion of gas for lungs.
They are not lungs, nor ears, nor intestines. Just frozen ghosts
toiling in a spindrift dune. A dune of nitrogen snow.

The fantastic fannies, the propellers of spring, the spiral drills of
the Oktoberfest. The fannies of the lolling fairies, lolling by the
propellers. With a fantastic churning, the boat rears and speeds off
across the old green lake.

The children want the sky. Haul down the sky like a scrim! Ever over
the moon, even over the Oval. Ever nearer the ovals. Ever nearer the
owls and the vowels.

Now and then I sense the nearness of strange dimensions of rules &
activity, hiding just under the scintillant paint of this world.

Sometimes, we're in a bus riding by a parallel Armageddon. Which only
the most sensitive of us detect. Naturally it unnerves us, so we up the
dosage.

Sunday sleeping over at my best friend John's house, under the windy
oatgrass hills. Cereal smell in the constant wind in the hot morning
sun. Tetherball chains ringing in the ringing wind. Sunny morning in
Cereal Hills. This is where the oak drives are, and the flat new house
lots. Leaves are blowing into the pool. The big girl up the hill is
lying beside her pool in a red bikini. We have new record albums to
play! Crackling plastic, crackling vinyl under the diamond needle.

September is a north wind in the hot sun. The months like wooden doors,
October, November. Grass & mud from the athletic field. Fresh white-glue
smelling mimeo paper. Cafeteria burritos in broken plastic. Watery cold
steely wind through the eye of the needle. Math homework, shivering in the
vest jacket. The months are like wooden stars. The stars are like wooden desks.