A Mash-Up of Caribou and Faulkner

Christopher Higgs

Because the trumpets in The Milk of Human Kindness precede the xylophone, the wacko curtain, the stage bursts into a flock of sparrows, the sparrows fly south, turn into librarians, drink blood, get hammered, put on headphones, and the sound pulls the red hem loose on their trousers, gulp-gulp-gulp go the crickets and frogs, the pedestrians draw wheelbarrows, bang chimes, shake maracas, fly a plane into the side of William Faulkner.

First the smell of wisteria.—a brilliantly placed em dash. Absalom! A trio of plastic recorders play a lullaby, hillbilly music, pantomime. A foxtrot, a face, a horse. Both bullets had a room and each before daylight, probably due to the pistol demonstration.

Did not use did not say had never would not be years, a face, a quality. Worm smooth of knitting needles. Peacefully ill. Steadily —a wall or a post— gold Spanish bottom land. Years of clients, not mud. Slavedealers fatalistic Latin faced wear somberly theatric determination, stark naked, bare replenished cache. Steamboats gaunt, fleeting haste of grandfather food trying to kill the legend. Hands clap, slap knees. Keyboards, wild men, plank clay and timber unaware. The women by example in a curious brute phase greet mosquitoes: the architect, the French invincible.

Decorum: weapon assault.
Protection: formal delicate smokehouses, a passing house, the hardship inexplicable, and horsemen.

Sounds from early sci-fi movies, heated bricks. Husbands. Prospective bride, Spanish coin. Electricity. Memphis. Methodist. Dissonance, cacophony. A voice like a cereal commercial or else Beck circa Mellow Gold. Zombie sounds. Chandeliers and mahogany. Speculation parties to anticipate an ironed coat. A man with uprightness drank surprise ruthlessness, a broken plate, a portmanteau. Slack-mouthed four wagons heretofore missed.

About riding which tarpaulin? Curry-comb? Baskets, parlors, furniture. Inside the worn broadcloth quizzical, contemptuous, half-eaten, dispatched, mortgaged, grandfather with the committee.

Always people. Always. A harmonica directly follows hiphop beats, a guitar is accompanied by recorder. Bees. The gallop of a horse ride, with bells and a wooden block. Police sirens compete against lazy trumpets. An anthem, a ceremony, cajoled for less than unremitting cotton, actual labor, a demand, anomalous stainless license zapping sounds of ray guns. A choral number, a church piano, another chugging western footstomper.

Creepmetal disaster of future relations. Anonymous stainless wife. A stock trader of disapprobation. The ribbons built meddling around natural regurgitated citizens. Alertness bauble. Indolence. Clonishly giraffeish. Vanity swallows outrage with insurmountable opinion and thrusting disinclination, clairvoyant nightfall pincushion. Blemish on the livery stable. Dignity, banquet torches, evidently halted mystical carriages shielding motionless remembering.

The ice cubes accomplish sinister masonry justification. Breathing creatures, probity repelling invading reputation nail. Revenge. Retribution. Robust roar and augur taught a hundred Greek interchangeable chronologies lugubriously.

Immaculate pledge, impregnable citadel, the drums fail. A twinkle, like Mr. Rogers.

Christopher Higgs is the author of Colorless Green Ideas Sleep Furiously, forthcoming from Publishing Genius. Other of his work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in many journals, including: Coconut, Titular, Conduit, Post Road, and Lamination Colony. He lives in Ohio where he curates the online arts journal Bright Stupid Confetti.