Did You Get The Fictional Memo?

This is a message for Ernest with the Greasepaint. Take your little shoes out of the basket I keep in the hall. Take your little eyes off of my home. This is a memo I am leaving on my personal refrigerator for the boy named Edward Comb. Leave your hands off the handle that opens the door to my California Dream home. Hone some new skills and roll your self into a thick ball. Then spring yourself into the future like a fly on a pile of hay. Go and make your eggs under the awning of the yawning park building. The one with eyes that blink in the dark and light the ice rink for the marvelous little ice babies. I want to leave a message for the third brother who has a hypnotic scream. He is the one with the faux leather interior. I want to leave him some thin slice of some rare imported eagle cake. The kind with real eagle meat. It's a scowler's treat and wash it down with Heet. You beat me to the punch, let's meet for lunch. I want to punch you and crunch your grill. Grilled tilapia sounds neat. We are a couple grown up hunks looking at the world through squints so sweet, wondering where our next thousand dollars might come from. It's hard taking care of everybody these days. So much maple syrup and it pours out so soon all over the afternoon and into the dark. And it makes me hark. Back to the ancient days of schnapps in the park. Alone with a Myrtle Beach ice cream and some wicked silk. Scalded hands of the thin restaurant boy with the pasta burning his hand. Whoever he is, he'll understand. Now set that down. It is made of coconut milk. I'll tell you something: this is the cream stout ale that has grown with age. Switch off the light bulb and come drink a quart of it with a person like me. While I slink off into the waist deep lasagna. They say that if you stand up on your tip toes and peek through the blowing grains of sand, that you can see the cheese peeling off the giant cheese log. It is about as old as old will be, these days. I see when I squint my eyes shut, the outline of Henrietta and The Wild Shoe. Where she had all seventeen babies while biting down hard on a plastic kazoo. I tip my carpeted ten gallon hat in the direction of her invisible mansion and slip through the manifold caresses. This is the cowboy life, fresh as a epileptic marlin struggling on the hook. And now in my old age I am able to say, "Go for your dreams and mop up the floor." You turn your magazine rack towards the Hollywood Hills and scramble up the red dirt bluffs. I have a cheese grater tucked under my arm and it is made of old cast iron. They used to use it to shave blue cheese for the salads for the Queen. The Little Baby Queen with the Eyes Like Pizzas. They were gourmet ancient pizzas, the kind you read about now in magazines. The blue cheese had rust. "I'm so sorry," Jimmy said under his breath, over beers. Then he put his scarf over both ears and began to convulse like a nickel slot machine that had just rung up the triple cheer. "Here, have a carrot," Steve lifted the top on the the trick mirror and reached his hand in. It was like going into a pool of mercury. Out he pulled a carrot. Sweet, plump, and soft. Deadly. Deadly.