I Wouldn't Call It "Je Ne Sais Quoi," Exactly

I would, perhaps, call it wretchedness -- or emesis. Emesis with gummy worm, partially digested, and an orthodoxy to end all orthodox thoughts: all revolutionary turns. I would call it vomit, in my weaker moments – "bracelet," in my stronger moments – as then, I could take a sharp mouth around the wrist. As in: the city is pleased to announce that our complete set of allegories has arrived. The city is pleased, yes.

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What The Charms Mean: I Felt A Face in My Honey Pot, Won a Juicer at the Jr. High, Watched Randy Feel Becky Up, And Then The South Re-aligned, Becky Turned To God, Becky Has Lymphoma & A Panda Diary, I Am Not Becky, I Saw a UFO – SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF ME, And Once They Said Your Cervix Is Gone I Got Half Stuck In A Tree, An Alien Dressed As A Rabbit Pulled Me Out (Or Tried To), Becky Took Off With A NASCAR Dad (Or Was That Me?), I've Always Thought NASCAR Dads Took Too Long To Squeeze (Now That's A Thing Of The Past), and My Immune System Has Turned On Itself At A Jr. High Dance.

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It is a snafu in my semantic field. It is the arrival of PANAMA CANAL in my semantic field. Before PANAMA CANAL everything came semi-unified from a grapefruit-scented Bohemian in Café Boheme, eating pragerschnitzel and avoiding the May Day Parade. PANAMA CANAL just conjures the possibilities of sweat. And sweaty men. And non-reciprocal sex – as in she turned back the covers and he'd left a single chocolate coin, and on her deathbed, she clutched a single chocolate coin! Let us not go down that road, again. Let us not do that: there is a pyramid with a floating eye, look. Let us not do that: they are burying small fishes with the corn – you should know. Let us turn our attention to the 35-hour work week.

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I am sort of allergic – meaning that, well, I'm that besieged. The ivory trade, Mother Nature, polyglots – all of it. Lochrians jump in the midsection, but I have turned the shutters down on that hatchery. I am so tired of being right. I am so tired of predictions. I will be more tired, still, as a spurned integer, a liar. I was once formidable – I dug mines, laid naked in the mines. The canary shone his light on me: yellow thing, he said – and I couldn't die, and he loved me, like a FIRESIDE CHAT, for years, and he drank–