thad walks-with-ducks instructs his wife

THAD WALKS-WITH-DUCKS INSTRUCTS HIS WIFE

There were shipments to be diverted, collated, indexed, solid and hidden, highly abominable, itinerant, self-absorbed and shooting, apocryphal, dull-lidded, weak in fighting, there was singsong to be averted, brass spheres to induce crests and troughs, and rhododendrons fit for the White House lawn. Only the most finicky packing crew would do. I called on them myself. Excellent. Excellent, ha ha. I can remember when we would laugh together at the pricks of bishops and all the old words that would have to be exchanged when The Day came. Saturn shone above my nuts as, resplendently uxorious, I fed you a rolled sheaf of cotton sealed with Cajun dip. The Horizon of Angels was like an eternity aboard the spaceship Iceshit. Hoarfrost froze. A woolly thrush sang shrilly over the turf, "Fuck-the-day! Fuck-the-day!" and, below the holly as a white warmed winter froze, nary a soul turned around to guess. Cream fled neighbors, who swung on their drums. Betcha can't catch the obliterated riff that once shimmied square on down the rims.

Okay, now to git to the margins of industrious fortune, the civilization must have at one time lacked a resource it needed, say, a new kind of firearm to fend off the Turks, and everybody would just gather together in a big huddle and not break rank until they'd devised a fine new firearm to repel the Turks. They must have gotten together just as those anxious Chinese gentlemen just portrayed. And justly portrayed, I might add, for I am a raconteur of known relevance, and were I to deviate from my 'shtick', as the young deviants call it, a very sweet and important point of public notice would be withdrawn from the Oversoul's bag of gestures.