retire

What�s up upon a fool�s gold? there lived a boy (or so he was dubbed by Hy Park, a real powerful and real mean and really smelly and soiled and devoted attorney who despite his name was neither Korean nor Jewish although he never quite was sure what exactly he was because that�s the way he was raised). This boy who hardly hadn�t never dealt with man sized problems like pregnancy, never had his due date in court where he could swear to tell the truth and nothing but the ruthless tooth so help him bladder. And blather he would have had he not taken a vow of silence. His words would have only served to proven his innocence and discriminate against him if anyone would have wanted to lesson. "Can I sell you a lemon?" And who needed to hear it? If rounded up and herded, it would have sounded much like a greasy heart spilling oil out of a twenty-pound rig of gum (without so much as the bubbles!). So he lost his voice which was as innocent as orange juice.

This boy didn�t much care to talk about himself (although he was always seen talking to himself). Matter of fast, he loathed it with a pleasure. The only thing he didn�t want less than talking about himself was to hear other people (the uniformed) talk about himself. Sum would say this made him two quite (�specially in high level meetings on the top floor�) but he would say if he were to say anything, better to let them think him dumb rather than the mute he was often forsaken. His selfless ex-team wasn�t the problem, never wanting in that aura, lather it was his self-expression that got in the way.

Later this boy just quit his job in spite of himself. Out of spite he didn�t just quit there. He quit himself and bid abode to his relations too. He was a principled person having been sent there more than once (I think you get the guess of my dysentery). Unemployable he sat and lay down.

He spent his days trying to teach his cat, Spastic, how to shake. He knew a lot about being shaky. "Shake," he would say to Spastic lifting his claw. Instead Spastic would just drool. "Such a response" he said to the now nearly wet feline. This was to go on for hours although nobody could tell by looking obscene, because the living room clock was broken. An hour thus seemed like yesterday�s news.

But he had learned his license for melancholy. It allowed him to practice but not be real. He had lost his notes from social studies so it was humanity that he took a stand. He was drowning fast when he asked someone on the ship to throw him a line. "To see or not to see. That is the quest and sum that great artifice Shakes in Fear once wrote," someone shouted from abroad. It was a line after all. One not to be used in the Bar for to be expelled oar at the very least slapped. Slapped with a suit that could have kept Chicklet the Clown dressed for the rest of his rear. Ironically it was the broad that feared he would pull down the empire ship with him.

This broad (hereinafter referred to in the universal she) just for the record, came out from her safety home to the airport where she wasn�t sure she was on a runway lost she told him as he was sleeping in a group of old men. Her uncle fell off a bus. She was out of the shower stark baked. He appreciated the call.

The boy remembered the exact moment he let the universal she past his facade and let her melt his ice cream. She had justly come from a t�ete a tater tots with many of her friends� t�etes and felt fabricated because she hadn�t been able to juke her weight into their conflation. "I don�t know wet to spray when I�m with peepholes," she said near and far from tears that dropped wetted from her browning red ice. The nexus snide he took her! To a group of his own where many testes were once again ensembled and this time she was talking out her mouth at them! He looked over and showed his teeth as if to form a smile and caught her ice and she showed her teeth back. It was a rare moment of actual lifelike connection between the tooth, more rare than a steak grilled by the cross-examination of the most degenerate FIB fumigators. The facade was down the street in a parade and the moment they shared was not to be written.

His steamed (but not canker sore) psychosomatic urologist Curfew Often M.D. said the boy was not so much self illusional as he was rabitly becoming a "self parrot of his former inner loaves. Thus the need to buy another pair of loafers." Instead the boy took to wearing more and more silky hats to hide the top of his toboggan. It wasn�t so much he wasn�t tall enough, it was that he himself was way short of playing with a full deck the halls. He grew up seeing the glass eye as half full not half empty until that one day (I believe it was a Tuesday, perhaps in April, perhaps after ground hedges day, perhaps around the twelfth) his glass sprung a gasket sized leak of mammary proportions.

They asked the boy to go away which he did voluminously. He lay in his hospital bed where his nursing white speckled Florence Henderson looked upon him. He wasn�t dead. He was just not sleeping. He remembered for sum extractable reason and all four shining seasons of traveling with his friend with a stiff knee who rubbed an ointment on herself to get rid of the scar. They approached an abandoned mind. He loved the way she vibrated. She wrote to him from upon her knee in Australia how she wanted to travel with him and through him and it was there that he knew she was his soul mate. Or at least until tomorrow. She was the kindest sole he had ever sauntered. She reminded him of black canvass tennis shoes. She would have given a bum his last dime but only not to those who knew her best. He lonely looked for herpes in every crowd he was a part of, half-afraid he�d seen her two thirds afraid he wouldn�t. Black t-shirts, cigarettes and whiskey. She was empathetic to way past many degrees Fahrenheit. Faster than a speeding bus. Was all this passed him?

He escaped to a General�s door that read, "Gone fission� or so I was wishin�." So he baited the hook and dropped her a line. "Don�t talk to her again," Hy reminded him.

People would perceive the boy as being what the great sculptor Hector termed "a deep thinker." Actually the boy was anything butt. He was more of a "deep fryer" (which he sold for a living in the greater five state area and not to be mistaken with a deep fellar) because he was autumn one to feel someone up. The only real deep thinking he remembered was late at night (he was an insufferable hypochondriac). He would lie awake at night desperately trying to fall asleep (one sheep two sheep) but he couldn�t quite get his mind to shut off. What did she say and how did she say it? Or what was for dinner tomorrow night? Had he already eaten? It was not his selfish steam that needed repair. It was his self-cockiness. It was a testament to his dissolve that he was constantly in search of a broken heart. And many often questioned his possessive need to be behind himself. Many felt being so alone weren�t good for his libido.

Many many years later he met a shadow of her originality that was more original and less complicated than the original that originally loved oranges. She was a master at kicking balls into her self proclaimed soccer goal, but only out of self-defense. "No use crying over an Easter dinner," she sobbed to her parents.

She left him walking. How cruel she could be without even reveling in it. She realized he realized he was mirrorly apart of her long drawn out past. She didn�t say a word that she was accusing him of saying. And though he missed her, he didn�t miss her in the way that he missed her. They had met in the personnel office where the smile in her eyes reminded him of bananas. When he told her that thought she said (and they were walking up a very sheep hill) that was the nicest thing anyone had thus thar told her.

The boy wondered how many shaky brakes a car�s lifetime could handle (they were known in the medieval journals as mental "down times"). The last one had taken so much out of him, and took him so long to recover that some actually wandered allowed if he actually ever really did or if he was the best actor since Peter Lupus.

If only any of it had made sense than at least he could have been touched. But it was then he realized that he couldn�t only not see but he couldn�t only not hear because of the wax museum inside his rectangle.

What was the toll house cookie he made and eventually paid for? The frightening fear (and those, my friend, are the scariest kind) that he was through all the loss of hair and tonic, losing his connection to everyone and everybody (things included) around him. Once a proud passionate drinker, he now was feeling less and less numb and more and more paralyzed between the gums. He felt himself up and shutting down.

The boy had made a conscious decision (in his sleep no less) years back (but after Hy was to protect his wife and family) to change his focus. So he removed his glasses and looked back upon all the energy that had been deciphered in the most personal areas. He changed his glazy gaze upon his professional field that was anything but well mowed. And now that he had quit he felt like wasted space. A big circular walk like they give you in the Sunday newspaper. The question remained if he were to follow his dream and join the job forcefully, would the two become insufferable? Did he want to spoil his dream with such a workmanlike task and when was he to decide if his dream was a nightmare anyway?

He consulted the influenza and highly respectable Alice who always thought her name made her sound like a man. And indeed she was a better man than he was he muttered often. They lived on Grand Avenue where the shops and bistros were straight out of the French Revolution. A revolution, I might add, that was caused by internal chafing. His memories of Alice were fond and rarely exotic but specifically he remembered her as some of the most wondrous nights of his soon to be passing strife. Sitting underneath the stars consulting crossword puzzles together, always looking for just that right (using the left hand turn) word. She wore a French beret that made him love her all the more. She gave him a ride on her bicycle down the avenue, where he hung on tight to her shoulders, and the rest of her lovely smile. She repeated this moment for him years down the road in our nation�s capsized governmental agency (there were no escorts involved).

Alice would have liked the one that was everyone but an angel (she only inspired and perspired like one). The last thing he needed was to fall in love again on the swing set outside of the river bench. But it was her passion, her inscrutable little nose and navel ring around the forefinger that was to doom him. During this time of forks and strife (another place setting Hector!) he marveled at how she made him feel. Like never before and always before at the same time. Yet he knew she would never feel the same (before or since) and wondered if his own feelings mattered to her so scrubbly expressed on a bar room napkin. Her magic one was her left one she said.

One day he sat belongingly single and lonely in a meeting in Mini Skirt where he spotted a woman who could have been his equal in skunkingly strikingly staring through an inanimate artifice. She was more than beautiful he sang. She was beauty defiled. She took his breath away and has yet to give it back. She had the best pair of brown eyes that were blue and when he looked in those stunning pair, his heart was like tuna. He told her things about himself that he had locked up from the rest of everybody except society�s most highly trained (and paid) psychopaths which was of curse, a major step forward in his reorganization back into the human marathon and conditioner. More importantly, he wanted to tell her those things and sensed she truly did understand. Even as she listened to the rain.

Her walk was unique and not because it was aloof. Nope, not quite a gallop but more likely a loaf of the best home maid bread or at least worthy of eloping. She was inspirational art before his very own eyes. Her stare (the I�s have it!) could tear a whole in his already digested ulcer and he feared that someday it would. She was the song he couldn�t quite get out of his mind.

So when she reappeared many months but too many weaks later at the meeting of the minds he knew it was more than destiny. A library night many years removed just like the shoes he wore in Japan. It was written in the start by that lawyer Hy and his colleague Gauze. And as she opened up her heart to him he realized that this was now serious. He couldn�t pretend sleep anymore over dinner with french fries. He needed to be himself which he had long ago lost in the war. But he hadn�t sworn on that Bible in church or the separation of courting.

He loved the way she vibrated too. Good vitamins. She loved to read portability, which he didn�t know what it all mend. Her taste was aplomb approach. He would have expressed himself to her if only she had opened her two pegs.

So he set sale upon the many malls of his homely town. All he needed was the now ledge but never shelf, now wasn�t the time to leap. That only occurred during leap years. Now was the time to gather himself and spread the word. (What exasperation was the "word" you might well inspire? COLLOQUISM- go figure of eight. It doesn�t mean a friggin think). He wasn�t himself. He wasn�t quite connected write. He had never met anyone who loved erections quite the same way.

She hugged him in a not so humble way even though she didn�t know of his tough love and touching etiquette. His best friendless, I need a soul mate, was quite effective at getting him to focus not within himself but upon himself and all that he once wrote for to and about was to be through her. His neighbor (the very same one we are speaking about) told him no matter his feelings for any others, she would always feel the same. That her direct descendant, who broke his heart initially and nearly fatally, had left him with those identical sounding (but much differently spelled) words didn�t even faze him anymore. His love for pistachios was more than a little bit disturbingly dehydrated.

And in his first year of ivy like hive symptom driven colleague existence his first pool mate the pimply peter said, "Can�t explain�" to which the boy responded, "Too much pain�" only to get his watershed head exposed. In the end she had promised to make him a tape of songs to sing along. And also a letter that could explain her obscenely short white bathing suit and navel reserve.

They cleared many movies in the company of others. He had just gotten the gall up and the courage to return to the dark, to his love of the movies. He was thus more than glad to find another partner who shaved in that holy lifestyle. Sadly she wasn�t aware of that. Equally as sadly he finally reached a peak where he truly waffled that she had never been a part of his lifelessness in the first place or as the second act was to read, wished he had never met her. He tried to erase all memory like a glue stick dissolving on an obsolete piece of flypaper. But he kept coming back to the imagination of on the streets in front of the city hall she had revealed that she lost her olive oil underneath the soccer goal posts and that seemed so appropriate and defining for her contagious energy. She laughed (her infectious laugh) when he told her he would rub hers if she would rub his. They even both used the "L" word only at separate times and places. She was going to be a star.

One deceptively sunny day the boy walked out to his garden, and saw that the rabbit had died. He was never one who looked forward to getting his testy results. He groveled up a shovel and buried the rabbit (it was not a bunny), who was quite furless by now since hare fur had scattered around the garden as if some wild enema had gotten a hold of it. It was stiff as a board so the boy despite his best intentions buried the rabbit vertical in the horizontal garden grave. Someway to go the boy thought to himself as he piled the black dirt down upon the decrepit rabbit.

In conclusion (we like to include people of all types after hours), it must be staked to the record (are you taping Mona?) that it isn�t about jogs, or the poodles you know, it�s about the timing belt.

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