Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight we present an ill-starred story of the cosmos. Our sun: no more than a cheaply gilt ball of fabric. Our planet Earth: A place where kleptomania is considered injurious. Where stories are invisible if they are too ``abstract.'' And whose mode of dress is irrationally based upon whims of fashion, rather than being determined by a vote.
I sign my stories in broken pencil: there's no fasting the meat of the bones of this libretto's slam-damaged frame. The words exist in the stomach first.
I have sorrows to report: that my attempt to play possum failed yesterday. Steelworkers smashed my car to bits. Penniless friends of mine had to slip by the guy at the door by native cunning; they are here consuming jukebox songs and the jokes of the planet's sweetest orchestra. Our president promised ``One waffle for everyone and every thing.''
Given my lack of experience with aliens, I wondered about which city would they arrive in? Would they pathetically fart about in Europe like some homesick college kids? Viewing it all as a monument to eeriness? Or as a bunch of stupid silos stuffed with Picassos and pigs? Or would they appear in New York, wasting time in ass-first regressive jazz dives?
Last night I lifted my binoculars to my eyes and saw the aliens infiltrating my neighborhood. Now, I'm not opposed to quiet, nor do I want to slam cleanliness, but the blaring gorgeousness of purple flowers overgrowing our house had likewise not been going unnoticed. So when that expedition of rigid-minded aliens lined my street, well, gentlemen and ladies, you can imagine the sound of the eight symphonies of Bruckner I played simultaneously until, bored of the accidental dissonance of bunches of seconds and tritones, I employed a guitarist whose reawakening cattail-sonics had to banish these space-visitors from my midst. But they would not go.