Probably The Closest Things To Perfection Are

The Sun Was Like A Huge 50-cent Piece That Someone Had Poured Kerosene On And Then Had Lit With A Match, And Said, "here, Hold This While I Go Get A Newspaper," And Put The Coin In My Hand, But Never Came Back.

I Fished Upstream Coming Ever Closer And Closer To The Narrow Staircase Of The Canyon. Then I Went Up Into It As If I Were Entering A Department Store. I Caught Three Trout In The Lost And Found Department.

A Sombrero Fell Out Of The Sky And Landed On The Main Street Of Town In Front Of The Mayor, His Cousin, And A Person Out Of Work. The Day Was Scrubbed Clean By The Desert Air. The Sky Was Blue. It Was The Blue Of Human Eyes, Waiting For Something To Happen. There Was No Reason For A Sombrero To Fall Out Of The Sky. No Airplane Or Helicopter Was Passing Overhead And It Was Not A Religious Holiday.

I Do Not Care To Be Esthetically Tickled In A Fancy Theater Surrounded By An Audience Drenched In The Confident Perfume Of Culture. I Can't Afford It.

Your Catfish Friend If I Were To Live My Life In Catfish Forms In Scaffolds Of Skin And Whiskers At The Bottom Of A Pond And You Were To Come By One Evening When The Moon Was Shining Down Into My Dark Home And Stand There At The Edge Of My Affection And Think, “it's Beautiful Here By This Pond. I Wish Somebody Loved Me,” I'd Love You And Be Your Catfish Friend And Drive Such Lonely Thoughts From Your Mind And Suddenly You Would Be At Peace, And Ask Yourself, “i Wonder If There Are Any Catfish In This Pond? It Seems Like A Perfect Place For Them.