PERRY FERRY

Very tiny town, Perry. The Perry Ferry takes one to the other dumb side of a bona fide map crumb, so one doesn't have to bum or thumb a ride. Mona sits with a lap full of cats on a bench by the station, a wench with a mission to pull the Perry Ferry to its final destination. This shoddy body of agua, spotted by Salvador Dali's clocks drooping over its docks, is the river Styx, a mix of muddy water and elixir. Quickly swims the river Styx, fixed on mixing its dirty squirty stuff with the rougher Gulf of Murky, which gulps down the dirty droopy squirty water into a brown shiny belly, kinda smelly, like Boutros Boutros-Ghali’s burrito-blackened belly, but not really. You think back to the Bay of Pigs with a pack of cigs and a sky-rack of MiGs, quasi-kamikaze thugs, dropping like Nazis into the water-Scotch-cotton compound of the sound of brown splashes, then drifting like ashes to adorn the shore's shorn corners–where normally the Perry Ferry ornaments the Styx liquid monument, nigh on five miles from the Gulf of Murky, as the turkey flies, or maybe flails and flops and gets nailed by the cops–huh, the foppish creature, beaching by the station where the bench-wench waits patiently to learn of the Perry Ferry's return, not aware that the barely bearable tolerably bad toddler, Cadwallader the Terrible, whom fairy-tales dubbed the Admirable Admiral, now varies the course of the Perry Ferry in the wide brown tide wearing one white Nike and one Sperry dock-sider.



Aaron Belz