kari edwards
BACK
 

from: low
entry was the profusion of something




     standing as the grand purveyor of the twice-around ferris wheel, I could if I chose, if no one noticed, I could offer that extra measure of time for the rare and debated. though, I was qualified for other positions, such as merry-go-round signal corp or fun house social worker, but neither seemed to offer the spectators as fair an advantage as the twice around ferris wheel.

     most nights I would get dressed in my spectacular similar outfit, the one with the large bulbous colors, state my matters to the plastic imitation theologian and leave my travel queen, which had been donated to the circus by the faustian society and junior cup holders. it had everything one needed; two wheels, an ionized dull pink exterior, a stove to cook pot pies in, and for the coffee I had my own personal mini-microwave station that could heat things and dry hair at the same time. there was the all-in-one bath with directions still there to indicate what knobs did what, and there was the typical bed-table-chair combination. I couldn't have asked for more. I had decorated every spare space of space with posters and icons of the local deities of the gas furnace generator, the suave mad followers of kingqueenking boy who lived in the woods by the dell and below the shop that served soft ice cream and meta burgers. my favorite though, was the frog marchers who every 44th or 3rd of some monthday or something would bring all the frogs out and chase politicians to and fro for hours. it was truly a wondrous event. then everyone would drink wine and vodka, laugh a bit, and go home.

     whenever I would leave my T.Q., I would always turn around in my doorway and bow to my decor organizer, which told me which colors go with what deities and how to group them together in a harmonious fashion. of course, mine only had a minimum of details, those that could afford it had those extraneous deities for every past breath. I on the other hand could only afford the general deities and posters of the local representatives.

     once I left, I would walk the fifty feet or so to the location where the remote would function, then turn on the totality of the ferris wheel. first, I would turn on the lights that represented all aspects of lost passions, then the ten thousand little bulbs that signified the number of nations created and destroyed since I last changed the bulbs, and finally the lights that took the shapes of famous people, mick jagger, isis, and the person who did the make-up for the cowardly lion in the wizard of oz, just to name a few among the many.

          I used to walk by the funnel cake machine that made cakes automatically, with its choice of twelve different toppings. early one morning, as I was watching the mechanical hand knead the dough, I saw a displacement in the pictorial decoration depiction of the good old days when funnel cakes were fried in huge vats of lard. right there in the middle of this huge panoramic effigy was a gap and through the entry was the protrusion of something black and pointy, with red corrugated eyes. it seemed to be speaking or attempting to speak, but between the working of the funnel cake machine, with its mechanical arm, and the air fryer, I couldn't hear a thing, besides, the look of those red corrugated eyes staring right at me filled me with too many fractal entry points which I didn't care to open at that time. there was something living in the machine of my favorite food source. I never went back. those eyes were like a persistent freeze that slices the bones into a midnight onslaught of pneumonia, shaking every filament loose, dropping fragments here and there. I wanted nothing to do with it. not a thing. nothing to do with the escape factor, maybe uneven numbers on fridays, maybe . . . wednesdays . . . wednesdays would do in a pinch, on a day the holy rain sings high pitched hurdy-gurdy tunes . . . yes, wednesdays would do in a slice or at 8:00 in the morning; turning over and realizing today is all-saints day and the next two days are the same. yes, wednesday will do, it will certainty do when the weather is sideways and it’s much better to heat your home with. fridays, you see, are rambling in broken leaf sounds. fridays are good coverage for wednesdays, but they are no substitute for wednesday. wednesday is sacred and has more numbers assigned to it, which leads to evenness, which is dangerous. friday is always odd, odd ball times, odd surfaces, odd faces and odd dances at cheap hotels for the masturbatorily, who usually sing the old joyous pantomime and worn shoe bits. fridays are days when eyes should never stare back, or when you don't want to remember the days when anything stared back, even if it was a wednesday, the original day the eyes stared back. give me a friday, any day, just take those eyes away.