Prose
The State of the Union
by Geoff Wilt
Fellows. Here have we something undone which in all capacity for goodness is limited by its nature. Beforehand, an even keel was the utmost desired. Now uneven, blistered in imperfections with cysts which rest right under, their coffers seem inadequate to hold the goods. Goods. Inherent in the light cast is the blinding. Without which, under varied circumstance, residuals of will might flourish. This being unacceptable. God is on our side, women and children. Thou not fear but forever, and implicit to your loving must be deception and a cold detachment that allows no mercy. To beg of it, idiots. The chaff is plowed under so that righteous will becomes the ether that you take in without knowing but for the direst of consequences. And you know not even the consequences, because like shadows. Always there, like us, the eye. But our arms surround you. Why not, children, have we not the poison? It's sitting around in carriages collecting debt and dust. When those who doubt our strength are silent, we are for the better and for the endless wails will cease.

Mid-sentence. Products. For the eventual, don't bow your head. Give no thought now. Little lamb, it is all in my hands. And for those to know, a disaster, in which your sisters are in danger. There is always someone hunting. The camouflage, your hope, is in the strip-mall with movies. I have a can, and in the can is a thing, and within this thing is your desire, and your desire shines like a boot. Wild rose. Don't ever forget, there's that. The boot. Then the best way is to put money back in your pockets and send you off into the jungle where there is no currency. But trust me, I've been de-fanged.

Now mind you, as much as they would like to rip the doors from your house while you sleep, there is also the ever present need to fill the belly. If you take this, you will grow twice your height in a fortnight. I've explained this to God several times, but he wasn't in on the ground floor. So if you're not a schmuck, lap it. The bigger the better the blister. And you'll shut up because there is a car waiting for you there, anyone. I met a woman after the flood, Ruth was her name, and in a one room shack she smacked her little buggers about until she was purified. See, I'm telling you this so you won't forget, everything comes to this point. To the food chain, you are but an abstraction, but on my ten-day plan you may become an obstruction. It's all about the fitness of the thing, about the coming days. Got it? If not, there's always the flood I mentioned but chose not to explain.

There are the naysayers, those who live outside the neighborhood. But I know my heart is unwavering. For a change of heart is the worst kind of sin, we can shout into a vacuum. On Friday nights, we put the most important words in the smallest print and attach things as riders. That way, the cake remains soft into old age and is never portioned. In fact, breaking the icing at all could cause a domino effect with reverberations of no less importance than the Shining Path. I'm tickled to hear the family dog is going to have pups. Sensualists are becoming quite the nuisance, but with some effort we can make a few camps. I learned from a guy with a German accent all the ways of cutlery.

In closing, I feel as though I've said too much already. Anyone within an earshot should be killed on sight. I'm sorry, that slipped. But things are happening now, wonderful things, transportable and light-weight so the substratum might be well flexed. Keep your mind fixed on the goal, there is alot to be proud of. Heaven's heaviness will no longer distract you. I never knew the man anyway. Part of the job is to shake hands and smile.
Posted by: Geoff Wilt

Prose (January 29th, 2006)