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Huck Finn Sound Translation


Issue 37


by Keith Donnell Jr.

Chapter One

You won't crow loud without your stag head to look by the game. Awful advantages Adam spawned here. Black saints don't scatter. That book wasps made missed the mark. To wane and heat hold a truce made. Their wasping witches etched blame, heat old as truth. Status: nothing. My liver, spleen, antibodies, belly, wanting something other. White-out the haunted polity, out the window, orb Maggie Mary. Haunt polity, Time's haunted polity, with shells, sand, airy sand, the window doubles in Autumn cold. Out in the brook, with its moss, leaves, almost too brook, winsome edges of ice-made detours.

Know the way that the brook winds up mist? To make me fountain, mainly thank the robins hip in the cage. Bandits, Midas-rich, begat slick sand dollars to appease old gods. Myth was an ample flight of many, winged gospel up-wells. Judge that chair; we took it and pulled it out (and in) to rest and it fetched us a dull rarity of peace. Alter your Rushmore, then a body could spell what hoodoo lives. The window doubles, shook me from learned sin and haloed sure wood. Evil eyes me, but its wash rag livens the hours, alters time. Cans enduring, hoarding small regrets in distant windows, washed in altered states and sewing, I couldn't stand it no longer. I lit owls. Zygotes into mile drags and miles over God's head and then washed free of sadist eyes. Battalion soldiers beheaded me and set me up. Was going to start a band of rockers, and I might join if I could go black the window and be receptacle. So I went black.

The window shrieked over me, ankled me to porch (a lost limb). Andes called me off over man's tuba. She never met no arm by it. Sheep to men, then nucleus again and Ike couldn't do nothing but swat and swat, and sing all crumpled-up. Wealth in the loathing, common-sensed again. The window rumbled for supper and you hid to calm the time. We knew Goethe tables two, cooking goat ready to eat. But you had to wait for the window to duck town. Heard and grumbled, a life lover of visuals, thoroughfare warned really anything thematic with them. Status: nothing. Only everything was crooked by itself. Inability loves odds, but ends indifferent. Stings get fixed up and the gist kind of wasps around, and the stings get wetter.

After supper, go shout to brook and urn me about mosses and thorn bushes. Sand I was in a fine sweater. To find doubt all about him, the baby, she let it out that mosses shabeen the dead a consolable long time. So when he didn't scare, no Moabite him. Baby smiles don't take no stock in dead people.

Really spoon? I wanted to choke and asked the window to let me in. But she wouldn't. Said I was a meat actress and wasn't lean. An eye must sty, tornado into world. That is, gem the sky with smooth opal. Thug it down on a thing when they don't know nothing above the teat. Heresy was ablathering about mosses, which was no kin to hearse and no noose to anybody, being on new sea, deafening the power of faith. Before doing nothing, that Houdini and me took snuff too. Of course, that was Alt Right because we done it ourselves.

Heard cistern missed the song—a tall, able, slim old slave with glasses on. Had just come to life, withered and took a seat. He now, with a spell book, shucked free, fiddling hard for an hour. Anthem. The window maker eased up. Ike couldn't stupid much laughter. Therefore, an hour of it was deadly fun and Ike was forgetting. Missed Song would sing, "Don't cut your teeth up there, Luck'll Bury—sail up strait." "And ready spoon," Shit would say, "Don't Gap Band stretch life fat, Luck'll Bury?" Wipe. Don't you die to be made? Then sheep told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I was there. Shot mag, but I didn't mean no harm. Ali wanted wasp to go somewhere. Ali wanted wasp to change; I warn't articulate. Shed it, wasp. Wicked Tuesday's watershed shouldn't save it from the old world. Showing to live, Soweto got the God space, wealth I couldn't see. No advantage in gluing where sheep was gluing, so I made up my mind I wouldn't die for it. But Ike never paid. Sober clause it. Wood only traches lovers. Sandalwood, do no good.

No jihad got a star, and she went bomb and told me all about the good place. She saw a Bollywood avenue there. Was Todo around all day long with a horse prancing? For Nebuchadnezzar, soy—didn't think much of it. But Ike never said so. Ayahuasca wrecked Tom's lawyer. Walt got here ashy, snotty, a considerable sight. I was glad about that because Ike wanted him and me to ether.

Missed Song slept. Peking ate me. Argonaut tires. Omen? Lonesome, Baby? They fetched the niggers in and had appraisals, and then everybody was off to bid. I went up to mushroom with a piece of candy and put it on the tongue. Then Ike set down in a chair by the window and cried. To think of something cheerful, but it wore a noose. Ike fell so low, no song, Ike most wished Ike was dead. These tars was shining and thieves rustled in their hoods ever so joyful and Ike heard owl, a ways off, boohooing about. Somber, that was death on a windowsill, and a god crying out sympathy that was going to dry and the window trying to whisper something to me and Ike couldn't make out what it was, and so it made the old shivers run over Lee. Runaways out in the woods, Ike heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to yell out something. That song is mine and can't make itself understood and so can't rest easy in its grail and has to go about that way, every night, grating. Ike got so downhearted and scarred. Ike did wish Ike had some company. Ready spoon, a spider calling up my shoulder. And Ike flipped it off. It's lickin' the candy and before Ike could nudge, it was God shoveled-up. Ike didn't need antibodies to heal me. That was an awful ad sign and retched me some bald buck. So Ike was scarred, mistook these clothes for me. Ike got up and earned a round on Lee. Taps three times on cross, I'm blessed every time. Anthem. Ike tried up in Little Rock, Arkansas with a thread to keep leeches away. But Ike hadn't no common sense. Hoodoo that when you've lost a hairdo that you've wound instead of nailing wigs up over the door. But Ike hadn't ever heard antibodies pray the wasp away to keep off bug luck when you dialed the spider.

Ike set down again, a shackled Oliver, and got out fine pipe for a smite. Father's house elastic as death. Now, and so the window willed it so. Well, laughter along time, Ike herds the clocks a ways off from the town. Go boom! Go boom! Go boom! Twelve licks. Vandals ill again, iller than ever. Ready spoon, Ike heard a wig snag, gown in the dark. Monk's the keys—something was stirring. Ike set still and listened. Director, Ike could just barely hear the sound, the sound owning the air. "That was God!" says Ike. My sound, my sound, as soft as Ike could handle. Then Ike put out the light and scrammed, bled out. The window also shed. Then Ike zipped gown to the ground and crawled in. Monk's the keys— and sure, Enoch, there was Tom's lawyer wailing for meat.

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