Russell Pascatore / Buffalo

Area Fifty One Million Gajillion # 13

When Jerry died an emerald waterslide rushing with vegetable fluid carrying miniature civilizations of little crystal skeletons and dancing bears, all animated by the obscene pulsating breath-organ of alien science, increasing in reversal fits and throbs into a pre-bud bloom, broke down through into this our inside unfolding like a telescoping centipede in a just routine operation and those little maniac denizens of the astralplane carried on up-lifted hands like the golden brick means for the freshjive institution of some boring ancient calendar they bore a moodring death mask to clock the affect-in-flux of Jerry’s face in death after steely time itself has quit on the party of that Goliath of be-cool reality’s tonal lick, but what machinic simulation persona, what charlatan hoodoo vizard, what will-o’-the-wispy hippy trinket beard, what chimeric new age rainbow domino hood could be anything but a filthy camouflage, a foul predatory cloaking device, an absolutely parasitizing face lift to Jerry’s representation-proof mug his inimitable potato shedding terms of comparison like a duck metaphorizes water back into mirrored shards vaporized like pot off the poultry of poetic flight from the intrusive cock of change just how girls in their right mind have dudes in an intricate ritual of facial preservation cum on her stomach—and on the day the day they tore him down, they all came and just sat around and said we bring peace in our time and they carried Jerry away and the dark faces of the pyramids at dusk cracked like Thursday mellons and his life was replaced by a rubbery fist squashing the grapes of our happiness like an anchovy current blackening the coast of our postwar pizza party.