J. D. NelsonMy whiskers are dripping w/ melted butter & egg yolksSomeone’s been stealing baked-goods. Number 99 isn’t thrilled with the outcome. Cracked like a backwards moon: that bird-mouse was singing a little butter song, really. Move over, then — beef up your system with these “circular” time-management enhancements — I sat down with my soccer-cup full of sad, sad breakfast flakes — I broke my wrist last summer — My ribs! I broke my ribs! I lost a parable around here — seen anything? Take these over to the blue table in the corner — I saw a sad girl down at the market — her eyes looked like planets — come back here with those cookies! — Number 99 knows nothing — fifteen eggs are missing — thanks, Pablo. Someone’s out on the patio with the chef right now. Over here — it’s the box of tiny cakes! So pink! — see my ribs? The sultan laughed and burned more oil. I asked the linebacker what time it was — he pointed at his chest — Number 99? I didn’t understand but had no time to waste — I was going to be the first one across the finish line, no matter what might happen to my jars of mustard. Someone is whistling that old coffee song — I keep my jars in a box and it’s locked — that old kid from North Carolina sees it through, every time. I fell asleep watching television — some cooking show about a bad old mouse chef and some stolen butter — this one was really strange — some woman looked away every time they showed the broken butter bowl. Number 99 punted his helmet across the living room and curled up into a dog-pile, right? Oven-roasted oils & herbs in my soccer-cup of cereal — real silicon wafers & blueberries this time — open the oven again — see my teeth? I want to make sure the cookies are still there — was that a hockey puck? Chicken toe gravy people — it’s already one o’clock and my feelers are on fire — Number 99 walked into the emergency room with a mouse-trap clamped to his big finger. “That’s what you get,” laughed the bird. This next wedge is coming your way courtesy of your friends at the cheese quarry out past the light towers — what makes a small mouse chef want to use stolen butter in his recipe? What makes him use illegal spices in the first place? I can tell that God doesn’t want that on your table. Butter looks good on the roof of our bank bldg. — this is what the old man was telling me — sorry, old dude — I’m looking for a bandit mouse with egg yolk dripping from his whiskers. Salty let loose with some rare techniques and the next thing I knew, I’m locked up in the pantry with some illegal spices. Police put suntan oil on their cookies — baby back what?! Oh, this is proof that the engine block was cracked at the factory — this is proof of the diamond quiche! Pablo’s still counting the eggs — I wiped out and three jars of mustard broke — it’s still out there on the sidewalk — the ants won’t have anything to do with it — he’s up to 90 — I’m watching myself counting mice on the brand new TV commercial — I can’t believe it, either! Someone give that kid a typewriter — magnified three times & still no cookies? The butter between my toes is starting to melt. The police took old Pablo out past the sound towers. The little old mouse chef cursed the day he learned to fluff wild rice — the tomato soup kids will be back with a better trap — the crispy cop walked back to the beach house with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a map of southern New Jersey in the other — a cop was looking for you earlier — I’m not going to come up with the money in time — I’ll have to forfeit the noodle competition. My toes are in the chicken gravy right now — are my expectations too high? I walked out towards the cheese quarry where they found Number 99 hiding in the cracker basket — you said number 90? How about nine more? The kitchen staff won’t mind — re-heat the pizza snacks using the aforementioned technique. There’s no reason your holiday snacks have to suck ass. Someone open the door and let those tomato soup kids inside — we’ll see what they were able to come up with for that dang mouse chef. Maybe I should just go for a bag of burgers — each wrapped in white wax paper and stuffed into a white paper bag — number 99 says his favorite topping is the serrated pickle slice. I could really go for a bowl of egg yolk and melted butter — some beans for my biscuits and more bang for my buck. Hamburgers make me cry! Cops tanning themselves? Number 99 wiped the yolk from his chin and said, “I can’t wait to get back into the game.” No one noticed the small mouse sneaking away with the bowl of melted butter. Number 99 had another go with the cream cheese — incomplete! My bag of burgers is broken! I ain’t eatin’ no sea food! The poor machine just looked at me with a melted butter expression and now I know how it feels to be alone, like a light bulb all over again. sunrise: 6:05 AM1. The spider called out: Hello! (The standard greeting, something friendly like oatmeal cupcakes.) I’m dining on aphids out here in the wildflower garden. 2. In the mouth of a Great Whale named Oxford: “Oxford — it’s J. D.! Can you hear me?” Oxford says yes but only I can understand him. Jonah’s underneath his tongue, a lozenge. |