Academic journal article Chicago Review

Glossolalia All the Way to Buffalo

Academic journal article Chicago Review

Glossolalia All the Way to Buffalo

Article excerpt

Poppy is in the storm cellar, cleaning. Chippie and her little friend Arlene up top are riding along on the swells of a joke about the Russian tank-commander, Colonel Vladimir Khotchokakov. They are beside themselves, each wave of laughter gaining force from the one before until their faces redden for want of breath.

Their laughter is to Poppy as water falling from a jagged height in broad curtains to the rocks below. The violent little spasms, hiccups, retching nearly, moves the feel from the grotto or bosky glen to the clangorous, windswept gorge.

--How like an intoxicant, thought Poppy to himself, the way words come loose of their moorings and fall apart, little bits of them all over like an airliner wreck spread out across the phrenologist's chart,

as he pushed aside a cobweb, wall-sized, something really from the Brothers Grimm, and found there only a rusted nozzle and the mummy of, well, a largish mouse.

As if the bus at day's end from the plant back to the suburb turned right on Marsh Tern Road instead of the straight shot south to the agapanthus and satellite dish then made a hard left to a finca near La Paz. …

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