Second Person

You are a mad scientist circus performer, ringing a small bell, and staring out of a window near the top of the wizard tower. Every other third Monday, excluding certain numinous terrains, you occasionally teach poetry appreciation to delightful elephants and sassafras tea (but only the tea truly understands the value of metered rhyme).

The crops have withered this year, affecting the moon. You have calculated the lunar orbit to be 3, else it must be from out of state this year; your jellied in-laws have deceived you once again on this date, this day to remember when the lost yarns of old have succeeded in liberating the crusty bathwater, scalded in their mothy tomes.

Duskily cawing, you broom your way up the last few steps of the tower. The incantation is already set: seven and a half candles are lit, plus a few more for show; one for each corner of the tesseract they boat. Or, have been drawn hastily by goats. You enjoy the company of these goats, “Freddy's Bar and Grill and Munitions” (up three percent in the stocks this year alone!). Copyright symbol. Limited liability. If swallowed, do not induce vomiting. Or, maybe you should just go for it.

You feel the incantation went well, though it could perhaps have been slimier. Or more yellow-orange hued; only time will tell. What you do know is this: that such is that what has been magically accomplished is nevermore heretoafterfurthermore a bungalow; not just any bungalow, but one with a decadent scent (all the trolls agree). Such a summoning as this, marvelous in spices, for even the new toaster has three more devices.

For breakfast this evening, a saltwater stew; three hundred marbles, and a blackberry shoe. Serving the stew in your favorite trumpet, you realize upon first taste that the tuning is off. A quick slide of the valve, and Pythagoras weeps, for the natural intonations have been tempered in favor of something slightly saltier. Your pet notebook is cranky, time for a nap.

You tree, you fig, you green the poor kale. You house, you future, you desk the town mayor (you quickly realize this is meant to be read to music in ¾ meter) [[you play your favorite waltz upon your least favorite alien artifact, sparingly but lovingly, or, lovingly but sparingly]] You fork, you spoon, you jaw to the largest caveat. You will can, you will agoraphobic, you will laughter in the spotted decoy (the music should have modulated to the most distant key by now, but it didn't, so you shout in great anger and molasses at your least favorite alien artifact) [[somehow, it is able to comprehend your emotionally-charged orders coupled with verbose molasses, and promptly modulates to the sharp subdominant]]. You have frog, you have painful, you have grease pineapple (your least favorite alien artifact has submitted its two-weeks notice of impending letter of resignation, signed in triplicate with two letters of recommendation from the institute of higher laundry, and other apparel) [[yearly microscope gorillas, levitating]]

Quirking your way back down the steps, you cease ringing the bell, for a storm is coming. You have always wanted to compose in perfect asymmetry. Now is your chance.