His jaw jutted before him, was his leader and master and hope. He walked among fields of school desk legs sprouting fresh and green out of the rolling grassy hills, he looked for and weeded from among them thin strips of aluminum foil, reflecting brightly in the sun. He felt as if there was a shot of whisky in him. He felt as if everything was missed. The sky was freckled and had smooth neck muscles. He thought if he squinted he could just make out the seats of the chairs whose legs grew beneath him in the field. They pretended to be orange but he saw beneath their clever facade their faded real brown. He felt like telling them jokes to maybe ease them out of their tomfoolery. Loneliness engulfed him, just another guy in an infinitely long line of melancholy fucks engulfed by that jerk. Big deal, he thought, how fucking original, I’m fucking engulfed by fucking loneliness, I’ll write a book. It’ll be called, ‘Look how much cooler and more creative my suffering is as compared to yours’. He realized that he had said this out loud, and it echoed across the rolling stick legged field in a deafening roar, fading after long hours and many multicolored changes in the texture of the sky into a low bubbling rumble of thousands of people talking about what they had done that particular day, and about what they were considering doing tomorrow. Everybody speaking had straight teeth, he could feel this, and held it close to his ear and heard the sea in it. All the space and field around him and the multicolored orange spotted sky became a shell at his ear. And he listened. It started talking, nevertheless, anyways, and regardless of this fact, Job listened to what it was trying to say. It said this:
Following coffee glut and expiatory glances in opposite directions, the tomahawk hippo leans sideways in various and numbered rainbow angles into halogen fricassees and butter cup lighters posing as pagination exercises with muses for ink. In other words, that which has gotten at last that which wasn’t in the perceived mode of receiving having been for quite a long time at the other side of the issue anyways, as far as the populace was concerned, one could have a donut if one liked, or better yet, translations of such a thing into a fourth dimensional plane with poppy seeds and pink ribbons and jars full of rotting meat. Menacing this fruitless combination were endless functionaries shuffling their feet in back room blues rhythms and flagellated panty hose containers with secret action figure inhabitants on their way home from the nearest occupational hierarchy figure urns. Nobody had ever heard of such a thing before so mass-spitting demonstrations filled the streets of Montréal with gray oozing slightly acidic slime which immediately digested only advertisements and hotel canopies. All fidelities, casualties, and hip hop lovers were immediately sent to the rededication zone house up the street from four sided pecker nut grizzly bear factories. The percentages were in, and nobody was kidding anymore, everybody was serious, all was art or business, and levity was grounded without phone privileges and force-fed pumpkin pies with a clean innocent and reflective spread of mayonnaise layered courteously along their tops. Everybody died, and was then immediately grounded by the Port Authority of Kansas without videodisc player privileges. Nobody was happy, and a revolt consisting of simultaneous spitting contests in Montréal, Portugal country wide, and Tempe Arizona, and Job won, yes you Job, you won it all, and now you’re grounded without avocatory privileges, and you don’t get corn chips with your dinner tonight. And nobody will laugh at you and the only thing you will ever hear out of anyone’s mouth ever again that is actively directed in your direction will be, how have you been, what’s going on, what’s up, how are you, and last but not least, what’s up doc? Go to hell Job, go suck your little skinny cock in your antisocial bullshit context warehouse on the upper east side of self pity and blow out your brains with your fucking absolutist spiritual bullshit Uzi, Job is not anything, Job has done nothing, Job is without reason, Job is without friend, Job can go fuck himself softly into his grave and won’t that be fucking romantic Job the forest eaten, the river swallowed, the rained on, the sufferer, the big fucking deal, the waste. There is no sharing of pain, there is no sharing of past, there is no sharing of subtle suffered beauty and sublime naturalistic intentions, there is only blank indifferent blankness, and it doesn’t even deign to eat away at you. It had already done that long ago, for you are the blankness staring blinkingly at yourself, you fuck Job, you fuck. Go to hell Job, you’re so full of shit Job, even your name sucks.
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