Elephant stopped and looked flatly at Hare, flicking his tail. "What is this about? Why do you even consider this nonsense?"
At about 8:15 we heard the moon was at perigee. Everything was still, balanced on the edge of an anonymous second, as if catching its breath.
The Decommissioner did not like to be awakened when he was sleeping, but that was the only practical time for it.
I will be arriving at the same time in two antipodal locations. It will hurt.
No one knows more about M than the blind Tajiks of the Vakhsh. But their knowledge is secret, so it is of no use to us.
You drool on the seat. Your head, in your absence, registers every bump of the road. Everything is an incursion, you dream. We can’t go on, and we can’t possibly stop.
Roland Barthes was nowhere to be found at Ike’s Roadsign on Highway 395.
Nowhere to be found.
Be prepared to play dice with the universe. Over here (ladies and gentlemen) you will observe the effect of a prone rectangle on the supine surface.
There’s a shadow behind the eye — / or behind the seeing?
Communion gap between shadows. / Or we are the gap?
We don’t even know what they look like, the Quango Martyrs. Yet they haunt our dreams and, more importantly, those of our focus group.
By the same inevitable process of erosion that turns mountains into molehills and minutes into mica, Rothko Chapel is being incrementally remodeled into Rothko Discothèque. It’s good for the economy.
The plan was simple enough. Build a bridge. Erect a boat. Devise an ocean.
Things were pointed out to me that meant nothing, but they contributed to the feeling i had on that excursion of being in a humid paper bag, as for ripening.
Once upon a time, a man is walking on the bottom of the ocean, all around the world. He's looking for something and he doesn't know what.
Make sure of something, of one thing. All these liquids, their aspects, their points of view. I'm inclined to ask, but I won't.
The Principle of Nonce, in a highly undocumented visit to Praeturbia (the year is 16– or 1753, or perhaps 1804) met with the Instigant of that dubious place and was put up in unprecedented luxury.
Eight photographs and eight texts, each pair laid out as a would-be image/text stereoscope. Exhibited as framed works at Fold Gallery, Portland in April, 2005 and compiled as a book.
There is no landscape more alien than another person’s home. Such a place can be more foreign than the lurid, gnarled surface of a distant planet, in virtue of its being the perfect comfort of a different soul.
Iron Marian had the night before drawn another Blue Face. Lodog Samizdat had seen the Face and now, counting bricks, it reentered his thoughts.
A disposable noir about a woman with the courage to protect a man without any, and a private eye who knows a thing or two about something.
Being a Catalogue of Some Half-Dozen Various Other Moths, As Devised by the White-Marked Tussock Moth, With Slight Verse by Mr. White-Marked Tussock Moth
To what, on Alternate Monday between the Hour of the Saint of Sam and the Hour of Saint Bathhouses, does Lady Ringley apply herself?
Moqueca Bayaldi was recently at a conference with Richard Planet, who denied, one evening over Cuba Libres and yucca, the validity of Venkelman’s Submersion Theory.
Why is it that João da Caza, the celebrated poet and literary terrorist, can board by chance any electrico in the city without causing so much as a blink while you who ride the No. 1 every weekday morning and night, draw such unrelenting stares?
What happened? Who’s responsible? Nobody knows. That’s why they’re knocking on Charlie Cachimbo’s door, see.
To the man in a lighthouse it will suffice simply to remove the staircase in order to turn the place into an elegant labyrinth. He will need more than a thread to solve the puzzle.
Smitty Bacigalupo comes out onto the street and watches the mercury plummet in the giant public thermometer mounted outside the Banco Ningún building.
You great, laundering Populace! You staunch and stalwart, garden-hosing, car-washing, hose-using People! Come now and ignite your stoves! Incandesce your aluminum and steel desk lamps!
When the scientists have finished their work, and when the engineers have finished theirs, and when the captains of industry have finished theirs, the prices will drop precipitously for all things and all processes.
we will be undone in inches / the luna llena of our long, single day / drained out in little processes

Long ago (in the past) during the pre-Merovingian era, dragonflies the size of a man’s hat ruled the steamy protoforests and the outlying groves of waxy, nubbinlike succulents.

The pointy nastard (Nastard nastard) uses its spikelike snout to root for mammals. During electrical storms it keeps very still, hoping not to be seen.



What a thing it is to see! Men and women working on the roads, opening shops, selling newspapers, flying planes, forging steel, shooting photographs, talking on radios, signing papers, taking phone calls, dressing wounds, icing cakes, polishing shoes...
It seems there's never enough time in Kahoutek Maboul! Just when you settle down to admire the surf at Quinine Bay, a telephone is as likely to ring as not.

A madcap ride into (and out of) literacy.