Approaching the dream busker, owl-eyed thanks to the John Lennon shades perched on hooked beak, he opened his clammy, beard-rimmed mouth. Pearly in their moist chamber hedged by unruly strands, delicate considering their owner’s standards, incisively enameling the issue in regards, debriding breath: ‘Instant zen, to go. I would get some cartoons in my head.’

Sugar-tongued with enough grape parfait to last a year, having dubbed himself the reigning charolastro and the logical successor to the moniker moonbeam mayor, he spent the next month prowling the docks, paying careful, time-invested attention towards rectifying minor civil issues ranging from the unwanted attachment of an obstinate plastic sack to an irate twig (he gave the lone breath of an errant zephyr the sack’s company and smiled indulgently at the twig’s wooden wave of appreciation) to domestic disputes between two competing brands of colas he found crushing caps. On that occasion, he delivered a tinny monologue with a such a crackling conclusion that he, satisfied that the colas’ argument had fizzled flat, sat beside a bar-breath derelict of the street and negotiated taxation, in the name of moonlighting municipal authority, expecting a rousing succession of success. Although he made a splash, the tense and jarring deliberation did not end well for himself; he withdrew his tariff and settled for licking cheap wine from his cheek.  

One day, he stood watching the wharf from coming sun up to sun down going and found a profound truth steeped in the stippled scene: God was a pointillist. As the sun rucked in its rays of light to tuck itself under the blanket of stars, he found with his eyes a rose recalcitrantly rising through a section of cracked pavement.  During the day the place was a crush of commerce, of crashing boot-strapped feet and yawing rubber wheels, of falling steel, tumbling plastic, sliding lumber, buzzing machinery.

‘Bodaciously tenacious…’ It was a small bloom, and it he smelled, bending over, his smiling earthworm lips squirmurmuring fondly between fertile russet cheeks. ‘Ewige Blumenkraft!’

From behind, in the shadows, slurring past the flash of winedark flask: ‘Gesundheit!’


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