Quail

And this morning, after dropping her off at the airport, and finding the easy way home blocked, and dowsing,  found an east west thoroughfare of known trans-metro magnitude, and even planned his bathroom stop, to coincide in the connoisseur's grocery, where, after pissing much, after arriving in the jade green Lincoln Towncar wearing a jade green hemp cloth driving cap, and a costume of blue shorts, and a blue shirt, proceeded to procure, a.) a fine rib-eye steak, b.) a box of chocolate muffins, c.) a cold bottle of Saison Dupont, d.) a small bag of vegetable chips, e.) a nice young triangle ala Manchego, and f.) a .25 lb clatch of Milano brand Finocchiona salami, just for the fennel, then headed down Royal to Audelia. Then, once at home, parked the Towncar in the shade of the Live Oak, and the Red Oak, showed himself to both the Cocker Spaniel, and the Calico, and sat down to read Eugène Guillevic:

Pebble,
Little Pebble,
You breathe.


It was then that he conceived some elaborate silver inhaler carapaces, and jeweled no less, something  to be sold to the infirm and indiscreet. It was then that he conceived toy ivory figurines of reclining odalisques wearing bikinis of chased silver, or gold, the theme getting old, but as a joke, was something becoming ever finer, like the parody of a fetish, as a model for the fetish itself, as if sarcasm and adoration had been made one under the grotesque grimacing larva mask of the absurd.

Wilderness if civil, overarching awl.