It is just to say
That the twin engine 8-track walkman
Spun into the sea
Shortly stopping depression
While handing out free Cool Ranch Doritos
But they had no bananas today
So I solemnly walked away
Ouch!!
"Zap!" went the old man's hat
And the apocalypse started on that day
As the virgin thorn grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness
And then the three guys I admired most, The Father, The Son, and the Holy Ghost
Packed up their stuff and left for the coast
The day the music fried
Tho' many people like to say that existence doesn't exist today
And fall asleep in the hay
Not to worry about a thing
Just to sleep there and day-dream
Then quoth the Reagan, "Less is more!"
Lo' against this fact the monkey rose
While taking a defensive prose
And filled his evil pants with cheese
And he screamed with the greatest ease
"Viva Columbia!!!!"
"Ssshh..!" He could control his people, but the jungle still struggled with the wind. Flakes of pollen and the scent off drug plants told their direction but did little else to help.
The sound of water running, hitting into something. 44 feet ago they couldn't hear it at all, now, passing just a single colossal tree, it was ear ready.
Major Bel didn't have to do anything. But he pointed. They scattered, each taking up a pre-arranged post. The guns were security. No bullets anymore since after the last skirmish, but it made them feel good. Something to grip. Hide behind, even if they were sub-things.
No one crouched. They knew it was going to be too long for that.
Then on the fifth day, a little boy chanced into the spring. Looking back after every 3rd or so footstep, he was no fool. But only going on 10, the black-haired child was already starting to bald badly. The tar his mother had stolen from a wandering (always hiding, moving, or else, be shut down) schoolroom's back wall did little toconceal his embarrassment from the many dead bodies of the village. And on hot days - nearly every day - his head steamed.
Hands to brook, he cleansed choice bits of himself.
The silent radios crackled loudly into plugged ear holes. Checkpoints ch ecked in. Jokes left one soldier and joined others. The signal..!
All jumping up at once, the guns blazed without a call to unity. The boy was quick, but not quick enough not to be not killed. Running all the way home to the sound of the mad men clicking their machines, he didn't stop for a single loose goat. Which could've meant money to his family.
Squat. The men could see each other's shinning faces in the brush. Green and black on their cheeks, black on their teeth, they still knew where each brother was hiding. Somehow they could Feel it.
It was worth the time. Their mission.
Cans of beefy beans and crinkly packages of shit they called Astronaut's Ice Cream, the feast was generally completed by 1800. Incremental watches of three hours, alternating by shifts of 4 man teams, a different group combination e very day, helped to pass the 24 hours until the next day, which officially started at 0600. Each man's night or day was wasted on an army blanket 3 inches thick and 2 feet wide. Army Off was good for attracting mosquitoes, however, each man found that by going just a little hungry every night, the paste of beans scraped from their cans provided good camouflage against the diminutive buggers.
It went on for 6 months, and the cards they used to pass the off hours soon had the numbers and clubs and diamonds wearing off. Fit. Tough. Sacred. They scared off a lot of children, and were grateful for the fact that there was no enemy army stationed nearby.
This is the first sentence of this story. This is the second sentence. This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in the story itself. This sentence is questioning the intrinsic value of the first two sentences. This sentence is to inform you, in case you haven't already realized it, that this is a self-referential story, that is, a story containing sentences that refer to their own structure and function. This is a sentence that provides an ending to the first paragraph.
This is the first sentence of a new paragraph in a self-referential story. This sentence is introducing you to the protagonist of the story, a young boy na med Billy. This sentence is telling you that Billy is blond and blue-eyed and American and twelve years old and strangling his mother. This sentence comments on the awkward nature of the self-referential narrative form while recognizing the strange and playful detachment it affords the writer. As if illustrating the point made by the last sentence, this sentence reminds us, with no trace of facetiousness, that children are a precious gift from God and that the world is a better place when graced by the unique joys and delights they bring to it.
This sentence describes Billy's mother's bulging eyes and protruding tongue and makes reference to the unpleasant choking and gagging noises she's making. This sentence makes the observation that these are uncertain and difficult times, and that relationships, even seemingly deep-rooted and permanent ones, do have a tendency to break down.
Introduces, in this paragraph, the device of sentence fragments. A sentence fragment. Another. Good device. Will be used more later.
This is actually the last sentence of the story but has been placed here by mistake. This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in the story itself. As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself in his bed transformed into a gigantic insect. This sentence informs you that the preceding sentence is from another story entirely (a much better one, it must be noted) and has no place at all in this particular narrative. Despite claims of the preceding sentence, this sentence feels compelled to inform you that the story you are reading is in actuality "The Metamorphosis" by Franz Kafka, and that the sentence referred to by the preceding sentence is the only sentence which does indeed belong in this story. This sentence overrides the preceding sentence by informing the reader (poor, confused wretch) that this piece of literature is actually the Declaration of Independence, but that the author, in a show of extreme negligence (if not malicious sabotage), has so far failed to include even one single sentence from that stirring document, although he has condescended to use a small sentence fragment, namely, "When in the course of human events", embedded in quotation marks near the end of a sentence. Showing a keen awareness of the boredom and downright hostility of the average reader with regard to the pointless conceptual games indulged in by the preceding sentences, this sentence returns us at last to the scenario of the story by asking the question, "Why is Billy strangling his mother?" This sentence attempts to shed some light on the question posed by the preceding sentence but fails. This sentence, however, succeeds, in that it suggests a possible incestuous relationship between Billy and his mot her and alludes to the concomitant Freudian complications any astute reader will immediately envision. Incest. The unspeakable taboo. The universal prohibition. Incest. And notice the sentence fragments? Good literary device. Will be used more later.
This is the first sentence in a new paragraph. This is the last sentence in a new paragraph.
This sentence can serve as either the beginning of the paragraph or end, depending on its placement. This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in the story itself. This sentence raises a serious objection to the entire class of self-referential sentences that merely comment on their own function or placement within the story e.g., the preceding four sentences), on the grounds that they are monotonously predictable, unforgivably self-indulgent, and merely serve to distract the reader from the real subject of this story, which at this point seems to concern strangulation and incest and who knows what other delightful topics. The purpose of this sentence is to point out that the preceding sentence, while not itself a member of the class of self-referential sentences it objects to, nevertheless also serves merely to distract the reader from the real subject of this story, which actually concerns Gregor Samsa's inexplicable transformation into a gigantic insect (despite the vociferous counterclaims of other well-meaning although misinf ormed sentences). This sentence can serve as either the beginning of the paragraph or end, depending on its placement.
This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in the story itself. This is almost the title of the story, which is found only once in the story itself. This sentence regretfully states that up to this point the self-referential mode of narrative has had a paralyzing effect on the actual progress of the story itself -- that is, these sentences have been so concerned with analyzing themselves and their role in the story that they have failed by and large to perform their function as communicators of events and ideas that one hopes coalesce into a plot, character development, etc. -- in short, the very raisons d'etre ofany respectable, hardworking sentence in the midst of a piece of compelling prose fiction. This sentence in addition points out the obvious analogy between the plight of these agonizingly self-aware sentences and similarly afflicted human beings, and it points out the analogous paralyzing effects wrought by excessive and tortured self-examination.
The purpose of this sentence (which can also serve as a paragraph) is to speculate that if the Declaration of Independence had been worded and structured as lackadaisically and incoherently as this story has been so far, there's no telling what kind of warped libertine society we'd be living in now or to what depths of decadence the inhabitants of this country might have sunk, even to the point of deranged and debased writers constructing irritatingly cumbersome and needlessly prolix sentences that sometimes possess the questionable if not downright undesirable quality of referring to themselves and they sometimes even become run-on sentences or exhibit other signs of inexcusably sloppy grammar like unneeded superfluous redundancies that almost certainly would have insidious effects on the lifestyle and morals of our impressionable youth, leading them to commit incest or even murder and maybe that's why Billy is strangling his mother, because of sentences just like this one , which have no discernible goals or perspicuous purpose and just end up anywhere, even in mid
Bizarre. A sentence fragment. Another fragment. Twelve years old. This is a sentence that. Fragmented. And strangling his mother. Sorry, sorry. B izarre. This. More fragments. This is it. Fragments. The title of this story, w hich. Blond. Sorry, sorry. Fragment after fragment. Harder. This is a sen tence that. Fragments. Damn good device.
The purpose of this sentence is threefold: (1) to apologize for the unfor tunate and inexplicable lapse exhibited by the preceding paragraph; (2) to assure you, the reader, that it will not happen again; and (3) to reiterate the point that these are uncertain and difficult times and that aspects of language, even seemingly stable and deeply rooted ones such as syntax and meaning, do break down. This s entence adds nothing substantial to the sentiments of the preceding sentence but merely provides a concluding sentence to this paragraph, which otherwise might not have one.
This sentence, in a sudden and courageous burst of altruism, tries to abandon the self-referential mode but fails. This sentence tries again, but the at tempt is doomed from the start.
This sentence, in a last-ditch attempt to infuse some iota of story line into this paralyzed prose piece, quickly alludes to Billy's frantic cover-up attempts, followed by a lyrical, touching, and beautifully written passage wherein Billy is reconciled with his father (thus resolving the subliminal Freudian conflicts obvious to any astute reader) and a final exciting police chase scene during which Billy is accidentally shot and killed by a panicky rookie policeman who is coincidentally named Billy. This sentence, although basically in complete sympathy with the laudable efforts of the preceding action-packed sentence, reminds the reader that such allusi ons to a story that doesn't, in fact, yet exist are no substitute for the real thing and therefore will not get the author (indolent goof-off that he is) off the proverbial hook.
Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph.
Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraphh. Paragraph. Pa ragraph.
Paragraph.
The purpose. Of this paragraph. Is to apologize. For its gratuitous use. Of. Sentence fragments. Sorry.
The purpose of this sentence is to apologize for the pointless and silly adolescent games indulged in by the preceding two paragraphs, and to express regret on the part of us, the more mature sentences, that the entire tone of this story is such that it can't seem to communicate a simple, albeit sordid, scenario.
This sentence wishes to apologize for all the needless apologies found in this story (this one included), which, although placed here ostensibly for the benefit of the more vexed readers, merely delay in a maddeningly recursive way the continuation of the by-now nearly forgotten story line.
This sentence is bursting at the punctuation marks with news of the dire import of self-reference as applied to sentences, a practice that could prove to be a veritable Pandora's box of potential havoc, for if a sentence can refer or allude to itself, why not a lowly subordinate clause, perhaps this very clause? Or this sentence fragment? Or three words? Two words? One?
Perhaps it is appropriate that this sentence gently and with no trace of condescension reminds us that these are indeed difficult and uncertain times and that in general people just aren't nice enough to each other, and perhaps we, whether sentient human beings or sentient sentences, should just try harder. I mean, there is such a thing as free will, there has to be, and this sentence is proof of it! Neither this sentence nor you, the reader, is completely helpless in the face of all the pitiless forces at work in the universe. We should stand our ground, face facts, take Mother Nature by the throat and just try harder. By the throat. Har der.Harder, harder.
Sorry.
This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in th e story itself.
This is the last sentence of the story. This is the last sentence of the story. This is the last sentence of the story. This is.
Sorry.
"'Nother piece of stuffing then?" I asked.
Her laced sleeve was sopping up the gravy, but I didn't say anything. We had plenty. "Are there any more turkey legs?"
"You had 2."
"Are there any more?"
"Lemme see..." I looked, looked under some wings, but all I could offer was some red congealing liquid that I only hoped was of the cranberry.
Her mother began to smell in the corner. It was just the three of us, and I always had to sit between the round wooden table and the kitchen's window of the trailer because I was the youngest, and could always manage to squeeze out semi-easily after a feast. I didn't mind, and I was always close to the refrigerator door so that I could pop it open and raid the door for more drinks if our Naz (a grape drink fortified with 10 parts alcoholic medicine) cans felt lighter.
A knock. My wife got up to answer it, and I put some more jellybean casserole on mom's plate so it would keep her chewing, and then her mouth would be closed at least Half the time, and sugar is a great deodorant if used in the right place.
A man's low voice rumbled, then Uma came in, engrossed in a paper which I could tell from filtered sunlight was far too short to be taking this much time. There were men coming in, in big brown-encrusted boots, beginning to hollow out our home savagely. Quick as prune juice they had the good couch out, followed by the ratty couch, followed by the couch we don't even talk about from the sewing room, and a few underlings were taking orders from the low voice about unplugging things.
"Hey!"
Uma handed me a work order, and I tried to gulp down a little Stove Top while I read. But I must admit the guy with the wide white eyes staring down at us, obviously waiting, a Polite way to do it in his village I guessed, for us to be through with the table, didn't help my feeding. As he was sort of in charge of doing the kitchen - a lot of things were iffy, but I can read between the pages - he began collecting up all the little framed needlepoints, and yarn paintings, and putting them in a little stack, which he put all on a wooden tray my wife's mom hadn't used for years.
The feet pounded as the bed came out of the far and end room, mattress turned sideways, still with the General Hospital bedthings on it flopping unevenly, but I stood up to catch the main guy.
"What is this? I didn't sign anything! Who are you?"
"You're going to have to move."
"Not till you tell me something! What? Nothing's owing. I don't drink, passing out on a bet or something -"
"You're going to have to move," he repeated.
"I am Not moving, I'll bet you a five I'm not moving!"
"You're going to have to move sometime."
I stared at him. He never blinked. God how I hated that. I had to concede he was right, steadying on a faulty footing. I had to say he was right and gave him the five. The troops came in with brown banana boxes and began putting everything we owned between sheets of bubble paper. Mom had fun pretending to help, then snapping away, but I was outraged, and tried to read the paper in my hand more thoroughly. I couldn't tell what the signature was, too scribbled. And the rest was just a moving company's form, with a typed invoice about moving "everything out".
It gave the address to where it was all going.
But by the time my eyes got off the paper, they were all gone, and every thing we'd ever worked for, money not included, out with them.
I told Uma to stay with mother, and I hopped in my car which they'd stil l left for some reason. I didn't care about catching them, but I was going to se e this "other" that was getting our goods.
I drove into a swimming pool because I couldn't see the parking lot at night. The man with the funny walk came out in a beaten brown bathrobe and helped me up the stairs of the shallow end.
Considering I just lost everything else, bank account still not in there, he was quite cordial and offered me a restorative drinky within.
I followed, and pushing the glass door shut, turned around to find my ho me, in another man's home. He offered me a seat, and I took the ratty couch. He was using the good one for tv fodder. That was quick. Those moving men were professionals, you had to give them that, and everything else.
I looked around, and around. He explained everything, and I nodded.