number dream seven

...so he gets up checking his watch, asking Rubin “where are the buffalo Rubin? aren’t they late for their appointment.”

through the swinging gates a gypsy comes. fortunes, fortunes, your fortune today? Rubin wants to know where the buffalo are.

gypsy looks toward the sky and flashes Rubin one of those what buffalo looks. poor Rubin.

secretary with the horned rims cracks her gum and answers the ringing telephone as she tosses some silver gypsy’s way. “i know where the buffalo are” says horned rims, “want to talk to them Rubin? they’re on the phone.”

“ask them where they are!” cries Rubin, trying to satisfy his brain.

“they say they will be here shortly, one just got hit by a train!” answers horned rims smiling, looking lost in her own space. (crack)

“jeez, come on Rubin!” he says, studying his watch.

i interrupt “excuse me, if maybe i could use the buffalo’s time, they can use mine when they get here.”

Rubin, the gypsy and horned rims all turn looking at me. gypsy’s cymbals and bells slowly begin to fill the silent void. up through the stairwell flies a large crow, fluttering around horned rims never ending stack of red hair. Rubin leaps over trying desperately to shoo the bird back down the stairwell. gypsy starts laughing this ungodly laugh that howls, and begins twirling, cymbals clanking away.

by now i have to get their attention again. “excuse me, Rubin. you think the timepiece would give me an audience for just a few minutes?”

“where you from?’ Rubin inquires, “you know the buffaloes?’

gypsy’s howl has continuously grown louder. now she is spinning faster than the birds wings are flapping. the watch throws his hands in the air and points toward the door, looking at me. i get up glancing at Rubin. horned rims spills some words between cracks like, don’t use the ash trays until after noon. the buffaloes hate ashes. crack. the watch follows me inside. right away he is talking faster than a twirling gypsy. grudgingly i realize all his questions are meant for the buffaloes.

“excuse me please, watch,” i break in, “buffaloes couldn’t make it. i am here to present myself for the position you had advertised in the kansas city star.”

through the door gypsy flows, howling, twirling, bells, cymbals, fortunes and all her hair black as flying coal, and just as shiny. Rubin is at her heels. the crow races in for the ceiling trying to bang its way through a window up in a dusty corner surrounded by spider’s webs. spiders commence dropping like unwanted rain. watch is uncontrollably asking questions at the top of his voice, horned rims runs in with her pencil and pad struggling to take down every word.

that’s when i felt it. the walls i mean. the floor, desks nervously rumbling. shaking. moving. chairs growing faster with each word, pushing everyone but bird against the back wall. not wasting any time, i quickly run out through the door, pick up my hat and head for the stairwell. step, step, step. the rumbling turns to a violent roar. steps feel like water as they stretch away from the walls. i try grabbing for the handrail; it bends in my hand feeling of hot soft saltwater taffy. just outside the gates i see gypsy dancing; and the buffalo stampede the stairwell. i can hear Rubin hollering, “the buffalo are here!”

me and the gypsy disappear.

Greetings from the Front Twisted Skirt Fire,

February 2005

i know you caught that one in the glow of yonder moon last tuesday there weasel cultivator. no matter how times that little nexus search peanut pusher jams his finger down his own throat to pummel glory and the tiger sisters to oblivion, he won't get my share of the peace puzzle or the combination to the historic dwarf sights and counting whiskey resolve for mind numbing mornings that end at 5 o' DUCK.

no, i am not going to be articulated into the corner of their web with my juices sucked just for the sheer ability to immobilize any prey into a drooling stare like a school girl on her first date with a true lame idiot in a dizzy pair of pants and short on wallet. no, not even those shadow dwellers you so richly remember from the last communique can exist in the fringes of the campaign. if the uppers ever realize that it is they who have lost the whole freaking mission on bad tips and shaky interconnects, the last thing anyone will want to slack is their own eyelids there weasel hoarder. in them we trust? well, they lied.

remember, if you don't play the tune you were told to practice those many years ago under the BIG bow, you will forever bleed from the constant friction of the perfect song.

after they plastered the whole tribe with lizards and breadfruit knowledge enough to fit in between all the wrong treaties that scattered the mighty nation to smithereens, then and only then did they bomb the closest lackey that was helpless to figure out what happened until he was the last one standing, then he fell.

anyway, i was ordered to pass this picture of the suspect along, so your ragtag group of pistoleros could finally get some necessary coveted sleep; and look for the elusiveness of love, not war?

back to the misty fog of war by the misleader of justice gone terribly backward into bamboo of boo. who sees?

twist a joke, choke the smoke. hang up if there is no dial tone...

Fifth in Command,

Basil Fassad

Greetings from the Front Terp Few Donella,

May 2004

That's weasel speak which you should understand, weasel lover. I saw your favorite gas bubble hanging around the touch and go, just basically being a giant pest and drinking too much dirty water, which everybody knows isn't too smart of a trick when you are thin as a broken weeping willow tree branch and calling for a mercy shunt to take you to the promised land, there weasel lover. Don't think me and my friends aren't savvy to your tricks. Me and the skeletons were dancing up a storm and rattling a few bones to ' rock the casbah' down Juarez way next to the juke joint along highway 41 by your best friends sisters phone booth heaven. Remember that story?

Well anyway, that's when your helicopter girls dropped in to pretty much steal everything they could grab that wasn't attached to someone or something, which means they grabbed my little monkey friend, Fredo. Fredo and I have been through a lot of mud and wine together and his daily shot of whiskey, toe and temple rub. I tell you he gets agitated if he gets knocked off his routine. I do not want you to be responsible for the loss of any monkey's juice, so my advice to you would be contact your helicopter friends and tell them just let Fredo go. He has a tendency to start gnawing on womens kneecaps when he's without for too long and really doesn't care who he offends or pisses on.

You could just stuff him in the nearest mailbox that you don't need a key to open. I know what you are thinking, but don't worry about Fredo, he won't suffocate; he's part Belgian waffle, so he has a little toaster stuffing in his genes. My advice is let Fredo free and your helicopter friends will have that small debt from 1972 erased from my memory, and I won't mention any of this to the command in control.

A word to the wise here, weasel lover, don't disappoint your next of kin who love you more than rags rubbing chicken breasts on a Mexican holiday for those hair challenged bobo's. Got it, get it!

Remember me to your cork sniffing friend, Humpo, and tell him I still have the greens from the Saleno's bakery counter that he passed on last Tuesday afternoon when it was raining horned frogs from hell and dolls, yeah dolls.

Love to all your plastic friends and barn mates,

Fifth in Command,

Basil Fassad