And yes, I baked it gently in the Maritimes with a kindly old man who paints boats (he calls them shells on a sea blanket, his eyes tearing ass up and down between the blankets of starry sky and reflective wavies with shattered starbits atop like frosted devices on birthday desserts). He said his name was Whorewhopper John Papkins. We found ourselves moderately crestfallen when he died of an easily cured malady, extreme proximity to a zone of unpatrolled anarchic dog pooping activities and gang-related greeting cards churned under fertile earth with the tireless motions of the robo-tiller, in the arms of another man one year his elder who shared the same name, but had rulers instead of legs, and wrote this sentence in the margin of a book he’d never held. There was an able-bodied neighborhood association waiting in the wings for its big chance on Broadway. It was never heard from again, or so they say.
But…if you listen carefully on a still night before the idea of “prophecy” has been birthed, wet and squalling.