Jitterbug Boy

marshmallow
gryphon
paraplegic
rake
membrane




In my business, you gotta be ready. You gotta be ready to make somethin' out of nothin'. You gotta be ready to create that ol' song and dance, that pop and sizzle razzle dazzle. You gotta make wow outa mush and juice outa lemons. You got air? Make marshmallows. You got rain? Make gravy. You got leaves? Rake 'em into a big ass pile and sell jumps for a buck. That's my job. Jumps for a buck. Hop on my brain and take a hey ride.

Last night I was up late weaving magic bullshit into threads of solid gold. I could hear that Jamaican caddy daddy singin' in my brain "Solid gold, mon. Solid gold." And it was coming out like the gossamer threads out of the burnt-out arachnid tracks in Spiderman's wrists. Zip zip. I was flipped on, tipped up, tight-lipped and unzipped. I was sellin' ketchup popsicles to a whole floor staff of a bridal boutique. I was selling funnel cakes to the Atkins crowd. I was selling wheat-germ sandwiches on whole wheat toast to a convention of celiacs, and pogo sticks to paraplegics. I was the jitterbug man. I was on top of it all. I was a gryphon on the top of Notre Dame looking down on the let-them-eat-cake peasants. My shit was firing hot on all cylinders. Arcs across the membrane, 220-volt sparks across my corpus callosum. On fire. Thass how I was, cuz, cuz, thass how I work.