A man threw a helicopter at the
moon; it was full of trapped grammies, howling like stubbed toes.
How they got there was not his
business, but he did think they were unprepared for a trip into space; in fact,
the helicopter said 'Pentecostal Road Show' and not 'Moon', he remembered.
Pigeons ate breadcrumbs in the
park. It was sunny.
There was one Eskimo grammie
that might make it because the moon is kind of like where the Eskimos
live. This might have just been a
regular western style grammie with her face pressed up against the helicopter
glass; the man didn’t know from Eskimo grammies.
There was a woman yelling at a
man who was staring at another woman who was holding an ice-cream cone.
Polar bears leap higher and
farther on the moon, but so do Eskimo grammies. This might net to Earth
conditions, he supposed, unless of course the polar bears have oxygen tanks in
which case the Eskimos will be selectively unfit.
There was a bench full of sun
baked grandpas that high-fived like motherfuckers; 'goodbye grammies' they all
shouted. They all clamored to collect their fishing tackle and bumped into each
other, entangling themselves in fishing line, the mismanaged marionettes of a
distracted prince.
Along walked a fat kid holding a
balloon. His face had spaghetti sauce on it.
A man threw a bench of tangled
grandpas at the sun and what pigeons remained pecked at the ground like
vertiginous whores, bobbing asynchronously, until all the breadcrumbs were
gone.
And then the man threw another
helicopter.
A fat kid noted that his
spaghetti was all gone. It was sunny.
There was sense of redundancy...