history is a nightmare / / cigar-tin stories number fifty four

A morning when unknowing meets the unwilling, related to the unable, and there's nothing doing but to draw three James Joyces, all in a row, I saw them the minute I had the cards in my hands. There is A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man somewhere back there, non-indexed memory, one of those books you know you've read but try asking me about it now, just ask me about it now. The thing in the backyard and what happened next. A discovery too late. A little white spider crawling out of the kettle. Put in a trouble ticket. The answer to the hangman is HELICOPTER. A thing made of noise. A thing with no outlines. A new way to be out of reach. A Japanese ghost pulls its own hair, shrieking at the trophy of its own severed head. Deep in the forest, grandma is a werewolf. Things in coffins. Things in coffins named Lucy. Particulate beauty. Thoughtform analysis. Princess Takiyasha summons a skeleton. Early for work. Early for searchers. Supper on time. He did it with portion management. Seventy pounds! A year of will. Ten minute nap. Okay, fifteen minutes. Time to run. I can't remember that book at all, something about Irishmen, mud and despair. I like him best with an eyepatch. 

An audio version is here.

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