Hitting the Block

A cool trumpet and some light brush strokes on the ride caress the molten evening sky. An empty square on the calendar is all he wanted, a meat grinder to cut up his brain into bite size pieces. No, that’s not quite it. He just needs the letters cut from magazines to collude with him for once and then they can take the back end excretions from the meat grinder for the sprouting mosaic. God forbid it turns malignant. But for now the calligraphy has tied itself in knots like an octopus.

There is that bright horn. It doesn’t blaze a path in the night, that is too unfocused, and a laser’s swathes are not broad enough. You’d tack it down for dissection but it has left the room, giving way a modestly dressed but voluptuous bass shaking it for the persistent percussionist. Insistent is more like it. And just when you think they are about to go back to his room, the horn saunters back, securing every eye. Let’s just be friends, the percussionist insists, because I can’t choose just one of you.

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