The Somnambule's Crime
Swidden
West
A few thousand Swidden evenings are wasted with rainforests then a vast assault of muscular Tuesdays is penciled in by silly nine-year-old alcoholics. They are bouncing about like maple leaves in the helicopter wash. When they are not scheduling disasters for the Opera they stare out the office windows at nurses with greasy blue wings in green mica boats going up and down Swidden Avenue and a failing nature made of water-resistant letters on a silver tie-rack. Their sleep resembles a peach instead of a beach. It appears that the weather in their sleep is quite small enough. At lunch there are divisive rumors of a diamond rusting in the filing cabinet. One of the copy girls notices that all their dresses have the same vanishing point out there somewhere just beyond the helicopter where listless lightning drifts down through a forest. In its violet hands the wheels of a wooden fire truck from which grow several branches. There is also a black lion staring up at the stars if I remember correctly. But I suppose I don’t.