"Pelf! Pelf! Get your red-hot pelf here!"
"How much, sister?"
"Well, for you...two galoots and a gallatin."
"Sorry. Don't got that much valuta on me."
"Old mazooma-man like you? Come on. It's pelf
"Don't matter to me if it's round-bottomed fins."
"Ah, here, have one on the house."
'Why thank you. So what's your name?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
I came in lassitude in the big context. I trayed hard, but never did ketch out to the frontispiece runner. Lassitude, lassitude, it has taken over my attitude.
When flail falls from the sky, run. It's much worse than hail, more frightening than thunder. A tornado would be safer and simpler. Flail is...flail. That thing which dogs our days and haunts our nights and rousts us from our armored basements with the threat of collapse and involuntary interment. Oh for the simple days before.
Away I flit like the down of a thistle, flying along a breeze like a whistle from the puckered lips of an inattentive god.
Every relationship has its sacraments, those small and sometimes meaningless gestures or words or actions that turn out to be pivotal in maintaining the integrity of two hearts struggling. Imagine your mother saying good-bye to you every morning when you turned out for school as a small child. Was there some special way she hugged you? Did she pinch your cheek and offer you a durian fruit? Did she let slip the wolverines so you would get your exercise fleeing the yard post-haste? Think now to your lover. What sacraments do you share with them? Are they solicitous of the blow-bys you bring home? Do they kiss your wrists before yanking down the cable ties? Are the photos polaroids that can be burned when someday one of you has slipped the other's bones into that acid barrel you went halvsies on last year? What are your sacraments? Write them on the back of a postcard and mail them in today.
We default to our basic behaviors when confronted by novelty or the bizarre. We default to animal reflexes when danger strikes. We default to howling laughter when the stick is slapped or a fat man falls down the stairs. We default to gibbering insanity when the moon is big and red. We default to tuna fish ice cream when ducks slither through the bricks. We default to words when ideas transmogrify. And default is our own, when the inevitable pun arrives.
(Word "Default" suggested by RuthN)