The gospel of the warble, as it is, is an alarm, whenever I mosey, it seems. Everyone gets a little warble. Ask the front desk.
I, myself, had a little warble when I woke up this morning…in the back of my throat, on the radio. The curtain was the color of ice as it melted. The sunrise was illegal gold. And on the alarm clock’s radio setting, the radio host read off an exotic passage from the calendar year. I was reminded of an off-broadway September song. I was reminded of Spike Jones, Charles Gocher, and Neil Innes. Of wax paper, the wind, and combs. I dodged a steel string gone haywire, barely, and reminded myself to pay closer attention. From now on.
I am well into my day, and they have chased the host out of the studio. He left his gorilla costume behind, but managed to grab as many kitchen utensils as he could carry. He lost a lot along the way. When he got home, he made stock of his bounty and melted marshmallow on top. You’d have to remind me what I, myself, had done. I stole away no bounty to account for my time.
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