AE Reiff lives in Marfa, Texas near the legendary flats that don’t exist of the shadows of mythogema. He is in during business hours at
Matching funds are invisible everywhere except in books. The best chance to see them is in the balloon. You might think clouds, but look again. We suspect the funds' existence cares for giant needs, to tidy up and clean a mess, tie up the bibs. But when the funds throw money, food and stuff is real. That’s when the company of little dogs comes in to move that hydrocephalic off the floor. Dogs aren’t fussy. But funds can mistake dog work and take those who feed them as their food. Grown from stock on farms, these pup-pet minions prove fund diet consumed like candy bits. Mouthful Feeding Anomalies (MFAs), the more they eat the bigger they get, so there’s also more for the Funds, who breed these jolly imprints on their own. Turk Mussel Fund was a giant fund so boisterous it was little more than a kid that squelched and squashed. That don’t mean exactly small acts of compression.
The Turk Fund and other Matchers have privileged relations with those Professors of Yum who stand between giant matchers and the little dogs. The aim is this, if purpose can be ascribed, to make the Funds appear real, which causes sanitation problems, distracts from cleanups of besotted bone. How Fundets make this clear is by gravitational displacement, meaning where a thing is they say that it is not. Squirming their own detections like dyes, these colorants catch funds in a net, but giant funds, encephalites, are still invisible. Pup-pets would follow their stumps to craters on the moon. Wherever they find a hole to produce a slump, that Funds a giant fromage. The impact of this science, its “footprints” are called nihil cognentesis solipsis, “brokered out.” The naked eye hardly thinks anything there at all, cannot see them surround everything in the metaverse, which “flesh” can slay by its material void.
We spend a lot of time analyzing Fund diet, what they eat, how they breed, so roughage gives its balance. Compare that to the fact that while this is going on the rest of us lead ordinary lives is amazingly enough even if Funds are invisible. Fund footprints are not the only artifacts. Hydrocephalic felicities of innumerable funds feed the cows and chickens of our day the way taxpayers fund libraries. These don’t just graze unpastured in feedlot. Mind is the flesh the monoploid eats where the fund invests. Sure that leaves a lot of slaughterhouse, but as they say in meetings, “man up the mind.” The funds of Professors Yum and Sum add discipline to the boards of a whole family of funds. Research is active. Invitations implore business schools to enlarge the scale, six billion today, eleven billion tomorrow, so fact, they need more markets by the feedlot. At “Eat More, Eat More” they plead until we pop. The fund base grows so rapidly there’s a need to monetize. Odd plans have been assigned to funds. No fund is greater than its own.
Escape From the Heavenlies
After my first trip to Palooka Temple got ratted out some folks wanted me back in the heavenlies.
Joe had named that Temple for himself. He called and said, “let’s go all the way.”
So back in the phone booth again we went, whooshed up and landed, plop. That spaniel gaze got me again.
Then the door opened and a huge banner said, Joe’s Home.
So I knew the Temple existed in the flesh.
The Igod Head
Joe got a plastic card out from around his neck, licked it, stuck it in the Igod’s head. Whomp, he fell down dead.
Things got quiet.
I reached for the paint cans in my belt, but Joe jumped up and pulled a lever on the idol’s head.
Wheels spun around real fast and matched up.
It stuck out its tongue and said, “Bazooka.” Bags started filling with cash.
The place had changed from my first visit when the Igod fell off its stool and turned black. When all the preying mantises had woke up and I got out fast, I didn’t see that tongue slide out of its mouth with little trees rooting from the nose.
Afterward, they all sat at casino tables with sweet meat and soda to make amends. Joe read out of his Heavenly Tour: “there’s no way out of heaven for any of you strangers unless you hire a rocket.”
The dolls around his altar clapped on their cushions. Everybody chatted nice. They were popping quarters left and right when Joe’s coupe revved up and slalomed to the altar.
Joe jumped in and disappeared.
The next time I saw Joe he was sitting tooty with his wife in the hot tub. The car was in there with them. He had stuck the phone booth in the back. Flesh suds snorkeled in the night and air pipes burped. Then writing appeared suddenly over the tub.
It read, “do you know what it’s called when you just can’t see your feet?”
I took a guess, “fat?”
“No,” the sign flickered, the thing had its own commentary, “sin! The fat leaves but the sin remains behind.”
Rats started to scurry along the edge of the tub. I could have written a commentary. Hezekiah, Jerusalem and Sennacherib were in the contents, but the guidebook said they were spiritual rats, "the number of gold Rats according to the number of Philistine towns."
Escape from Tannenbaum
I averted my gaze from Joe as he rode in the Tannenbaum with the Igod for all to view. It was a lovely holiday. His speech:
"I ride my Tannenbaum to emphasize the past, but I love you mutton sheep. I love you on TV, and though we do not speak, I’d love to give you a Tannenbaum this Christmas, all green and frosty, a patch of yes to reward the tumor Philistia is sending.”
I wanted back in that phone booth real bad so I stayed to the end, but the booth was stuck in the car. It’s a lot easier to get into the heaven than out. When Joe slowed down to get more bags of cash I took a chance, got a running start, cleared the door of the phone booth, landed inside hard and here I am.
The last thing I heard was, “who will give a donkey's head for 80 shekels of silver?"
Our city was called Particulate. They built up such stuff into a pile of trucked earth. Damp of soot and stone made bumps.
Make the bump!
Away with the flat!
Ants tunneled in this and that hill while Aussies sand-blasted their moonless mutton chaps. Dust rained in hand claps. Sand piles were filling.
Steel rods struck the rivers of our blood, when there was water to bleed. Nutrient blood flowed down all dust and mixed with flesh, floods nutritious and pleasing to crops, barley feed down the Salt. The Department of Corrections has proved that this true on all planets, but not on small stars. Some thought these were blood, but I think them diamonds of wide need.
When the Saurians came to resettle the old world, which was economical even if darkness came in four billion years, a new cycle began. Energy was left you see, and the crocs had endless flights to repopulate the dust worlds after the crickets had gone. Do not overlook this populace at the nebular level. Wee people wander, fingers popping, hands snapping, "snapper come!" You will find out yourself. It bounced up and away where Boombay kings carried it to the sun and buried air in ear.
Into this wide need rivers and seas flowed round rain balls and duct tears, globes to live and die and lose another world. According to croc authors visible air divides into snap and bites. Now all were snapping. This cacophony so dismayed duck migrants and pigeons they landed and bent the wires. Poles touched the ground. Poles looked like candles. Everything was dust. Pods snapped and each dust bean made three to four dust-clamoring lights, planning to rise in a single wet, then fall. Where would it end? The motes of dust led the insects a hundred to one.
Pity the poor crickets and stone lizards their teachers. A lizard child winked its eye at me. It had a student cricket between its jaws as if to say,
I know the passing of the dust,
the great bumps of rock
and the mountains to come.
Say boy, could you start up that hose! The dust was settling from another blow. The noise of it! Lizards chomped in the yard where crickets were all the time pealing, "no, no eat me!" But the stateless grasshoppers moved less than a bobwar fence. A cry came down that reached into collars, creeping where ants dare go, under sills, into light sockets: "ants are biting me."
In this consciousness of toes, where the dust river comes to sit in pieces, one piece said:
"I was an amillennial Lutheran enzyme, a fence row two feet down, anaerobic for centuries. This rising swept me up truck tops. My beauty gems the grasses, who is like me?"
He leapt to shoulder height and did a little dance, wearing short pants and had a hat with a diagram of stars. But then a saurian limousine in the form of two crocodiles mating swept up in a rush and swallowed the little friend. Oh the digestible horrors of it when he passed through worlds of gastric and came out in a swamp.
That was all the rumor of it I heard, for my earplugs were looser and I began to hear lots of gossip from the noisy world of crickets and ants.
The grasshoppers celebrated with umbrellas.
The wee people danced under croton.