there were unstoppable peanut butter reservoirs flowing toward my bagel’s black hole. I got some on my pants. not enough to call a ‘gob.’ improper to say ‘crumb.’ with my finger I swiped it up and rubbed it along the back of my bottom teeth.
I’s used to grampa calling me “pussy faggot” by now. he drank his coffee soup with floatin’ bits of molasses cookie crumbs wading along the circumference.
‘the best part about winter jackets is that they don’t cover your face and you can still stick your tongue out far enough to catch a snowflake, or spray from the snowblower, if mom forgot the scarf. Jelly Boy and Carl always found ice or pea gravel for inside their snowballs, and I couldn’t form them fast enough.
I had bent over and raked some clumps into my hand. Carl shot one at my chest. ashy feathers billowed out of my jacket. I told them we should take it to the hospital, but Jelly Boy said that naked trees are like winter’s x-rays, and birds are frightened of x-rays, and other advanced technologies.
that’s why they head south, to places like west virginia, and the damp baptist towns along the messa-sippi. we found a carrier pigeon willing to make an exception, and paid him handsomely.
