GreenasSky A gambol in the goodies by Sloan Nota

The Man Who Couldn’t Mean

We’ve all heard about the little man who wasn’t there but now we have the fatsy man who couldn’t mean.

What do you mean he couldn’t mean?

He would say ‘high’ and he’d mean ‘pink.’ He would mean ‘dog’ but he would say ‘star.’ When he kinda sorta saw a ‘bear cub’ in his color-changing thoughts he’d wrap his mouth around ‘cockadoodle.’ Because he didn’t mean anything he said. And he didn’t mean everything he said. And whatsoever his whim was, was. And if you wondered about it one whipstitch later he’d be miles ahead of you. ‘Creamy ranch.’

What do you mean he couldn’t mean?

I mean if he felt ‘yes’ it would be about something you’d think wide of the subject. And if he said ‘damed no!’ it would be about something you and he had yet to consider. Like plum pies. Like mud pies. Like gingham aprons.

Do you mean he couldn’t signify?

Yes but only if you understand that words were whatever came out of his mighty mouth, words were the blather stream, words were sounds going through him – his impulse, his bla, his vocal chords — which were Presidential vocal chords — his sounds which were like the sounds of frightened deer when gunshots rang out, were like the sound of industrial effluvia chuffing into the sky, were like the screeching of brakes when its too too late.

Do you mean he couldn’t give a damn whatever he might say aloud?

I mean he couldn’t even remember whatever he had said.

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