Serialization

The following is a selection from the unpublished work, "The Hope Hammer (The Hammer of Hope" (n.b. if you want the footnotes, you'll have to buy the damn book) *** This is an aggressive neighbor bash, this is a knapsack full of hash, this is a fortune million dollar ring, this fortune will a million dollars bring, this subject will verb the object[1], and noun will adjective verb, all over my face, in the plainest English in the place. We are all just like new parishioners, will will we will pray for here, will will stay we will stay, for here. Humidity, glass, clear water, falling water, cross the moonlit sky, across the polish city guy, through the mud, and on the sidewalks, and all the time like the present, this is for all the birthdays I missed. This is for a year of lost pre-valentines. I was staring at the mailbox, sitting on the corner across the street. It’s the same colour as the newspaper stand, the mailbox, I often wondering what the future, if anyone has ever, or ever wanted to just “accidently” think the mailbox was a newspaper stand, and place their stories, and money, into the newspapers… no one will get your letter Fernando. I don’t mean to pick at or on or at him, but he is always there. Screeching out his name with this fingernails along a chalkboard, his future of stock-residing, will surely account to nothing to account with his food-service career. Where people come, and pay him to fuck like a banana would fuck, and come on him for pesos of oh precious pesos, pesos and iron. It’s all back to land again isn’t it Fernando? I know your plans you are watching this white-bred world, waiting for the debt to crush the society, for it’s back to break, and you will be the new nobility now, wont you? But the world isn’t ending Fernando, and you just bought the wrong paper. It’s an easy enough mistake to make, the illegal hashbarns across the streets, the brightly lit café, like of my dreams, is lost inside the street corner, where only my ears, and eyes, and my mailboxes and flies, can discern you, throughout the hubbub, through the cometwebs of feet, and crawling critters all up their legs, these feet, accorded so much space, but travelling so far. Making love with the dust, as it settles in their moisturized cracks in their feetsies, and treatsies, and to adorn this sweet tenor, this nectar is all that is awaiting for you, on this bloomy street corner, of my minds eye. I pray for quiet and solitude, and multi-generational somber dues. A trample wire, of legitimacy, a cracked corrupt and crazy walk in the part, this sparky little end of sin, this mushroom blood, this sonic, this bandaid, this true structured tomb, I guard you with my eyes, my ears, my mailbox and my tears (a newspaper stand—I named her tears, after my sister) a true zealot if ever there one was. So much for this crane bow of good insurance,[2] a liquid, liquay, liquay, liquaqa, period staple. A lost of pinfulal painful in my nevers nerves in my lefts, legs, Transistor failing, reception required. This is not a TV Scramble. Over and out.