VICELAND AD#49

The furious sound that helicopters make, circling. Above’s the nearest answer to nothing’s clack and rap. Freedom’s cut for less bothersome territory. We train turtles to dream of rainy eyes. The bleakest set of propositions, not so mutual anymore, and the terror of tomorrow’s fled to the flimsiest excuse to drum up some excitement anywhere but around here. Easy, Rough Stuff. Lowercase has gone out of style. A whir. A roar. A whimper. We go out so unappealing and not heard. And that’s the worst racket this side of The Slot. Bear down on the imposters at the helm. Grin with the eagles. There are trinkets to twinkle and glow with the buzz and botched boom and waterfalling cacophony of split atoms. There are blisters on the not-so-iron heels of recalcitrance. A casting of lures, bate set, and you get to boogie with the gods for a night. Custard-colored daydreams. Ruby-laced annihilation. A skeleton key made from a used cannonball. Get the trucks from the board, the balls from the bearings, the silvery glint from the moon’s face. Cram for those judgement-day blues that’ll never come. We blame the mask for the maker’s shushes. Let the ruins be fine and damn dandy too. Nobody knows you, not who you ever get to know, when you’re 6-feet down for the count. Another gangly mishap in the misdemeanor light. Another blank spot on the canvas. Show off whatever it is that you’ve got. We’re not taking all day here, alright? Alright. Sleep through your best laid plans. Call a lawyer. Call a vet. Call the best ambulance company in town. Call the secretary of lamplight. Call it all a standing eight. Or maybe you should just call (646) 851–0347 and get it all over with already.