Return to Civilian Life | Dale Houstman

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Yes, you will claim that you are at long last “getting somewhere,” working on your singing voice (ripe, softly vindictive, sporadically self-accusing), and yet your single recording (“Young Boy, Get a Mop”) is not the legendary hit we expected. As we ponder why, the thought of a desk fire beyond repair arises, that fire is here and now, and that fire has peach blossom flames. So, let us say “you were lovely” although it is only a tactic. Did it work? Call us.

A few in your outbuilding still hold eccentric notions about the letters of the alphabet – Such as they each function with an independent consciousness, some of them are better prepared for their inevitable retirement, vowels distinguish themselves via a special relationship to inertia, and so on. Yet, when “truth” finally emerges from beneath the packaging, it shall be awkwardly foolish, covering that with a gestural extravagance against which we will play the Episcopal character, backing away toward the fire. That pretty fire. Peach blossom fire. And, since you mention it, what of those “promises”? A serial rudeness, a handful of tiny thorns. Get over it. Lift a leg. Did it work?

And yet, psychology has also evolved a protective commercial shell, and even the lowest banking lackey can adjust its ineffectiveness to suit their disinterest. The entire nervous system finds itself unsupported by the wealthy, so we dismiss it, recalibrate its bosom alignment, and move farther away, leaving sensation to the children back there in the dark-feathered nursery. We realize such statements sting, another evaporation of frameworks, you are disappointed by our weekly proclamations, but do not concern yourself. Just try to wiggle your toes. Who is President? What year is it? Were you ever well-liked? The egrets fly under the low lamps.

And do not be dissuaded from desiring defeat. This place is obese with the stuff. Forcefulness is best mixed with hesitance and then mixed again: even mountains look small if you’re not impressed. You might be contentious as years breathe years and break their contents into smaller years, and that seed of a distinguished daydream concerning the reproachful stranger? It stumbles off into the background, away from the fire. That pretty fire. Thus, we have great peach blossom forests. Wander into them, pretending to be a singer. Did it work?

In conclusion, this specific day is a crack on a sink in a motel, or (I notice you were listed as a “Romantic”) a sleeping woman with a rose-tinted curtain as a skin. Whatever, that is all special in acceptable portions. But the question of our imitative barbarism? Historically, all our enlightenment, the full tank of comprehension is a miniature sunset to light your coral teacup, momentarily veined with damp, red strings of letters seen through a glowing thinness. Perhaps a sort of fire? That pretty fire.

Go away now.

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