all the rumbling goes to the head, fixing on that tiny print bobbilybobbling, but the eyes work good, ya. still reading sidewize, though. there’s that eyeless (crone?) sitting there, peering over the left clavichord, but mmmmmmmmm. she’s got heaps of heaps of heaps of bags (and the wheels go round) and are they spilling out onto the alleyway? maybe she’s hiding them all under that wide skirt of fabric. still, reading. but now she’s speaking (glance, notice that black, eyeless) underherbreath. speaking. speaking. into the left hear. but i can’t.

turning to that eyeless. looking straight into that dark pane, a glass darkling. (quack quack) and she’s still talking. but the words. oh there’s one. and oh there’s another. but they don’t add up. in any equational sense. to anything at all. it’s like the square root of -1 all over again.


but even after, she’s mumtering, not louder, still muttmering. “i’m afraid i can’t hear you.”

she stops then, like a spinning wheel gone soft.

“you’re a liar.” she says to me.

back to reading, feeling that blank darkness staring at my ear. until that festooned bag lady crawls off the bus.

One thought on “chomping….”

  1. and the bus, and the other bus, and there’s another bus. I want to always be NOT seeing the bus, is what I want, just this wants, and it takes me but minute minutes to steel my pedals.

    things make me angry and angry, about… don’t know what, it’s not important.

    That old lady with no face, I hope she wears gloves. I’m afraid for us if she doesn’t. I am scared while sitting, or standing, but mostly sitting and watching from the bench and I see the bus

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