What Happened to John: He’s now a vine, ever vying with the fence, a recompense for having wronged, a lump of blue begonias, oddly flumped, a clump of mushrooms with a Latin name, lying dumped where I shoved him down -- hey-diddle-down, diddle-down-day -- and held him down-down, the man on the moon and the flowers of May, the blueberry fields and the breeze on the bay and Farmer John, with cups of curds and whey, fie-diddle-dum, diddle-die-scum-scum, and slew him with a roughly hewn machete and laughed, and threw a puff of blue confetti. What Happened Next: The cow jumped over the moon. The plow ran over his head. The fork ran away with the spoon. The knife eloped with the dead. Little Bo-Peep lost her sheep but I found them and drowned them in the bottom of a ravine. They’re still there. Hideously deformed with bloated, shriveled faces. They never left.
Posted on: Sat, 16 Aug 2014 08:13:03 +0000
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