liner fiction by tyrone duffy

Paste this onto the great enterprise. Weep. Think about the short wave radio, think about a certain kind of yeast, about throwing it all over and going out of business, hanging with the white guys playing with the wiring from the alarm clock over in that neighborhood, busting on the machines, they're mostly the white guys and they're tuning the electric guitars and avoiding that soul patch thing, they're not looking like utility infielders, attaching something appalling and disorderly to befuddled characters, they are not out on the proverbial limb, bird-dogging the local species of pheasantry, this variety of carbohydrate comes from the one neighborhood in Portland, they're fine on commuter planes, driving other people's wheels (the devices sent in by the parcel service, delivered by some union dude wearing a uniform); these guys go learning the advertising trade, they're foregoing a proper trade where they might be generating the cheddar, that's stabbing gossip with wrong fork, know? Some kinds of ditties they are only gotten from remorse about advertising pimps in suits, lite broadcasting which is owned, staffed, overseen by pimps, like invasive weeds, merchandise from that sewage factory, but they're coming after the mechanized extrusion, they're commenting thereupon, after which comes the really lyrical part, now, which is the triumphal part, which is where the heavenly chorus sings, excepting it's singing words cut out of the newspaper--don't let it make too much sense. Use unrelated debris.

Boys are rehearsing in Hoboken and trying to scrape off stray bits of dialogue that has to do with worms of American franchising, taking samples from the factory of roadkill. Count off. They watch some televised sports, they dispute, they fuck around on some tabletops, this is the droning instrument, this is the mandolin, right, even if it seems unlikely. You happen to be better off for it, for untrained eyes, for scratching, for genuine carbohydrate molecule of hip hop, not those cheese products ripped off from the repetitions of enjambment, the repetition and imitation of the deal coming out of uptown latitudes. Okay, so this is the thing that lives in Hoboken, where I'm onetime this destitute student of philosophy. The salty snack bits they more than just the salty snack bits, and you'll bite down on it, cuz I tell you to do so. Like, you are hungry, wanting certain kinds of colors not favored by designers to appear on a screen they got attached to inside of your eyelids when you are on the beach. Make way for ducklings, come after me into these dreams after history, here, where the boys are in a loft space someplace, renunciating, and certain kinds of sounds go round and round, as if the preacher is preaching to converted families in their best Sunday clothes. You have now mastered all of the alphabet, that's the human enterprise, ain't got no swing if ain't got the human thing, what with the monsoons on purpose, what with the songs for sand mutants. Get your camera obscura, construct the boys in the loft with the baseball games on even if they don't actually exist except as an image entity, because isn't hurting no one, and these frames construct a filmstrip about a dog's lungs and car crashes and the sixteen decisions, and, man, that's an uplifter. Listen to the words, as the mighty river flows past.