Buzz Blur had an etchstick souvenaire marked into one of the coal trains in the yard.
How it wound up close enough, right there, something other than a picture to look at, was a
fine happening.
The man who owned a family of skunks was not there that day. Or he wasn't self- announced deliberate enough to've be seen (by a filanderer!)
So the bunch of skunk snouts weren't there to point like arrows while he'd try to convince me
to actually crawl up and INTO to the coal storage buckets. ('saw what he was trying to play.)
That happened once, when answered about "good ways" in "other yards."
He said "You'd come out a little bit dusty, though, of course." and maintained a straight-face.
There was that fresh tar gunk stink. and the dirty hands and fingerpads that go along with it.
Even if you go about with your hands at your sides in that environment you still sort of wind up
looking like you've been crawling, desperately, blind navigating the terrain. Meeting all of the textures
and each cross-hatch.
Bellowed like some belly-snake really just bellying and scraping along the ground of tar and
rust and kaput. Even if you're on feet, sprint-walking.
Ages never occured and thankfully, a timeframe snuck into fascination-territory seeing that
"
Col. of Roads." placing on that wonderfully smooth, aged steel. It was done in white etch stick and
the gradiant of gold and steel and bronze stain was like a way which led smooches downward of
histories composition which finally brings us to the Poly Styrene formula of reproducable plastiques.
Still I think of M. Hawkeye when passing that territory. (The owner of the skunks. Pay attention!)
But it's been a ---while---since passing through
that territory. He had clever claims of fact-checked lies and said he carried a 200 lb. portable stove
on his travels. It was good as day much as like the led-parachute I would always bring back from
space-travel when investigating planet-deposits. I didn't tell him about that because I shut up and
listened like you do when someone is spraying tall tales and fancy yarns. You smile, and you nod.
And more of that would have went on had he been present the very day that the Buzz Blur decided to park
on the yard therebout.
It's the same place the fox scattered through in their low, astute caution like some stop-motion
essence that (a moment) says "Hey! That there is a--- that's a--- a fox!" and the fox continues along.
"Damn right I'm a fox! Now appreciate me from afar and stay the hell away from me."
Fair enough.
The row-boaters weren't hooting and hollaring and being whipped by the volatile screaming attaching
oneself to a megaphone. (The lake-inlet near.)
Not on that day.
That allowed for the tall-birds to stay perched up on
telephone poles without taking off scared each time a slave-drum had been beaten to consist that the sport
of rowing to go without a jab. The fish had not been spanked in the face with thickened wooden
oars, either. So the tall birds were free to fly down into the inlet and pick them off with rewarding
gulps of breakfasts and lunches and dinners.
Luckily none of those beautiful things and brash annoyances were to ever be distracting. Each would come back around again when due-called. The tamed skunks would swivel around M.
Hawkeye's mailbox at the end of his foot path.. at the brustle of the 'yard. The rowers would
come and go depending on status season and what kind of shorts could be suitably worn.
Beetles as fat as hamburgers would arrive not paying attendance and sack the lobal section of
rowers that needed to pick up pace.
The Buzz Blur train would roll on in to northwest-towns
and hinges of other places until the side-car-panels rust and eat the material and the etchstick
that was marked onto it.
Frogs would hum be-bop near the corner of nighttime.
Other souvenirs would live on new steel, but recognizing a 'Buzz Blur" came to be a handy
satisfaction and a kind of redeposit of developed foot-stink and sweat-bulbed eyebrows.
This is idle speculation for 05/12/"2016"
The 'big bucks' will be put along soon to getting that web-site hosting returned. It's been a few years
since having all of those links and the material sense-spud 'up' and active.
The free-site hosting has all dropped one by one and that black furred, white-chested down-town cat wasn't able to act as the 'top' of the 'real-main' page . My tech-team (ironically, a blash of tamed skunks) had not re-wired all of the
correct circuits.
Some design teacher at one point is history's scrutiny dept. said I yappled and had too much yabbling on that website And to edit it so there weren't as many words. It'd be sleeker and easier on the eyes. And things like that carry through being remembered. Gentle recommendations live as blistering goyter-spittle and they are like gigantor crabs festering on the lawn which you tell them to exit. Only in the memory she was festered by a bunch of Gumbies with small boomerangs. Each one returning to a particular Gumby after bouncing off her 'snozz.'
So that site might return again after whatever amount of years of absence. Can you spot the
assurance in that claim!?
If it was a neo-pet it would have starved.
unrelated skunk,2007:
