The decrepit are all helpers to the Bavarians in a pit of so meander-more decrepit and the splayed webbed-wetter hands for a kling and a klang, out of gasoline pus the I-talian raised himself out.   He loves other people and their pockets and what it would be like being inside them. All left for grabs of his family is his creator-consort and his grandfather is a clock for ticking and tick-telling. His only friends are a mallet and his eyes, he imagines what it's like to be Flemish-kind, with his own eyes. He thinks of all the beer taps to be had and all the skins he could have had onto his oste-o, with his own mallet. His machine-mates think he's an idiot and he thinks maybe if he had the same oil change he could've been chugging the same life or brooding on the same silk.   "Get'ya hand away from that sprocket."   "Ain't no other way to do it."   "As long as we're hearing half of it."   He's everybody's subordinate and darn wishes to be a little less and a lot more. It's a curse is what it is, his no-number name was to be Marc being followed with a Rulli or Rollo or or some of sorts but he had to pay free-favor for that life of could have been his to a family friend and branded himself as Marcel-Heinz only. Less family friend and more bachelor to his mother's bachelorette, he cashed in as a smog of exhaust a while back and thus lives in every home and everywhere without an embargo, and ain't no changing nothing who's the pappy or not, he's the I-talian. The real grandpappy of his is more prairie dog than man and his mammy Brigitte keeps him round for luck, always luck in keeping an old timer.   His only exit is his smoke break but he gets his dose of fumes ready and already, he goes outside and lives other people's lives at the Alta Cunningham, sees a seam he likes and without any touching and without thinking of his seamstress mammy history, he thinks of what strut he coulda had and who would be taking him out for a smoke that he once wouldn't be familiar with throughout the day. In every satin flat he sees corridors of love and a little more, he sees Venetian cruises in the to-be breast pockets and sees two-steps in the rabble-rain.   Would've been another missus-market, Ms. Elise Fleming's, but the only Flemish round are teeter-tourists who have come to visit the roads of Rome of their time. Bavarians renovated the town from Greer to Neu-Neuberg, ain't no centurions round just small-time beat cops with their auto-machine ornaments facing forward on their cap, the furniture of town. Parades of brays and trots, most troubling crime round is public intoxication or indecency, the rest remain as decent of squares as they can be.   He creaks open his mammy's door open later in the day and tries to tell her about his new venture and the seldom dream he's about to make real, the seldom dream being prophylaxis for all his real ones.   "I'm leaving for the coast."   "Y'know how long I spent trying to get a man to get us here, this is history, we are witnessing it and have lived it since. Stay here for the man, that's what we planned."   "His name is half my name for Sam hell. Ain't no trouble leaving for a little discipline."   "You're telling me you're a faggot?"   "Nay, I'm joining the coast guard at the South of Broad... Charleston."   "Same thing, different story."   "So..?"   "So go on then."   And so he boarded the tram and saw all the little cars like they were his only friends trawling through the highway. All the Dutch-gables exserted themselves into flat antiques and all the hats from flat-brims into sun hats. He little-leaped onto the small trawler and made the acquaintance of his summer cats and they left for the Sierra Leone Rise for some patrols round the de novo American incorporated dominion of Little America. The American coast had prolonged itself into the ivory and all the constant coastal towns had been turned to trading ports for seafarers of all global guts. All hadn't been smooth and word is some of the blaggards still sporting the idea of a Liberia were round the moss, living by what they thought was living true, from a Liberia to a Little America to a Libertatia.   As expected for the service time the I-talian grew familiar to the dock floorboards and familiar to the taste of the provisioned bags of condensed milk and lemon hardbiscuits, he learned to tie knots for all name callings and swept the wide-tooth broom trying his best not to get the dust onto his teeth. A room was entirely dedicated to churning and elastifying the biscuit dough, a primitive system of batons hammering at the dough. The hammers or hammer-ers are like twin dancers who have been drinking whiskey.   He wore his sailor suit and stayed sea-Semper Fi, the Bavarian machined-mausoleum was alas-ed into the free open plains of the maritime. A few months could pass and his carbonized bellows would turn to crystal-coquillages. The desolate plateau made brotherhood or brother-caps to all.   "Don't fall into it."   "Fall into what?"   "The dough, you eejit."   "This is my gold, ain't no bother falling into it. Ever seen that duck?"   "What are you on about? Must've been drinking something harder than us."   "The duck. The one that jumps into gold. Scrooge O'Duck or somethin'."   "That's stupid."   "Okay."   Through the paralleled lowered sky of the sea was a ferry embellished with flags and handkerchiefs were flailed at the cats as a thanks for their service. Beckons were thrown into the calabash and the cats warmed in closer, as a treat. The trawler made the same screw-in connection the I-talian was familiar with onto the gold and red ferry.   The cats boarded unto and were tilted away and unto again. The cats finally seeped into the wrought iron round door.   "Make careful!"   The main attraction of the whole dig was a whole chic checkerboard yard and round tables teeter-totaling round the place. The only source of light were the flashes of the paparazzi buzz and the perfect stripped and straight white teeth straight as razors of the stars. The ferry speaker system let out jingles through a megaphone inside the party berth and the stars all had oblique gold on their necks that did their jingle-jangle.   The five cats mingled through and the I-talian especially made merry of seeing all the Playboy vestites come to life straight from the resined and full pages. At the very back of the board was a pianist with both his bones and his piano being glass-grand, and a gold plaque was plastered right to this shoulder, higher.   "GODIVA. GABREAL FRANKLIN. MICHAEL PETRUCCIANI. LYNN WHITFIELD. LESLIE NIELSEN. SALMA HAYEK. LISA STAHL."   Petrucciani stopped his jig syncopated with the constant jingles from the megaphone, he stood in an aloof appreciation of his one-star but chef d'oeuvre concerto to be circled by three of the bachelorettes.   "Let the interlude be the sound of our fucking!"   Godiva stood Amazonian and in a constant constable vindicate sparkle, her rival had died once and will never live again. An Austrian virtuosa who had once been a boîte-banshee, serenading every man into adultery and one into a mangle for a curse. This so au-strich fell into a very same curse of an impenetrable pearl veil during a cruise across, every long shadow being miscible and a little worse than a fiasco, her being anchored onto the bottom of the seashell bank. An All-American duchess was shot from a cannon into the spotlight and into this ferry by her very last breath.   The I-talian gallery-gawked at the G'diva and she asked for more, he browsed through all the fabrics now in digit-describe while the other cattle-cats of the stars reprimanded him for his impudence.   "By golly, do you have to be so gall about the whole stare? You've turned this whole galley into a sick room."   "Sorry..."   "What's your station number?"   "I'm..."   "Or whatever you sailors got as badges. Your barrack number then."   "My barrack is that boat over there."   "And what's the number name of that?"   "BO-12 or of sorts."   "Of sorts. Okay, get out of here."   The bouncer made haste and by memory of the witnesses the skittish foal had transmogrified into marine-material or had been replaced for better and the I-talian was scraping at the checker galley while cropping at whatever mâche-manure was left by the guests while he was being dragged down-side up by the bouncer. His total spoils from the party stuffed down his shorts before making contact with the maritime being as so, a clingy-page Playboy magazine, a hoop earring, and a full last gawk at Godiva.   As he buckle-boarded unto the plateau all that noise round him had turned to some swishes and some swashes, a dolphin had played towtruck with his form inadvertently or advertently carrying him in the general direction of a safe aport West. He was buried by a torque heavy bed and all felt shoveling and a posse of the local privateers had come do his bidding, the dolphin made basta towards anywhere but here when 5.56x49 was heard.   "...Blblblblbl..."   The testimony of his remained the same as his time in the wet, some swirling and an ebon optic of everything, bag on his head but everything was yesterday-yet. Destitute tongues complemented the image of a now burlapped I-talian on this torque-abundant maritimer headed Eastward to a coast more soothing for the belligerents and more appropriate as a doghouse to the I-talian.   The flagship of old alee-made easy through the rise and the swivels were ever-changing and even after the rascals had docked unto the palm something was to be felt. The I-talian's gut was a tumble-about and there was some come-uppance of his breakfast on the shore. By the time night came true the buccaneers had the I-talian wrong on fours of the dusty filaments, a conga line mapped itself out and some of the buccaneers took turns placing their service rifles and by event their person on the Sicilian back. As the crescent smoothened out the strands had complicated themselves into pebbles and casings, seashells for entrée.   The night rejuvenated herself and the I-talian was sat Indian and unshackled at the embered stokes, and handed a gulp of sea for souper. The pirates took congressional turns breaking and sharing street-stories like bread and danced uneven, every breath being a lifetime for the I-talian. He reached into his shorts for his reaps and unalarmed were all. By the touch, he was laid upright at the Ms. Fleming's and he saw skyscraping sentinels of leather, two hundred towers of Pisa's with each having lovers intertwine. All the ugly had come short and the night and day were satin.   "...A market-goer did his usual and came to the market. He saw eggs and asked, 'How much?' The lady turned and said, '20.' And so he reached into his pants and gave her the 20. He saw melons and asked, 'How much?' The lady turned and said, '50.' And so he reached into his pants and gave her 50. Years had passed and he had made acquaintance to the prices to a point where he said the prices cocky before lips touched, '20', '50', and so the goods were exchanged. By the time he had made circle tour of the market, he saw a woman empty handed and told her, '20.' 'You're going to need more for a quick one.' He made travel of the wares and saw another empty handed woman, '50.' She insisted she wasn't selling anything till he mentioned he was paying in cash. Her tunique wrap suddenly felt lighter. Schooling fees had gotten quite costly in the summer."   The I-talian's stay of execution at Ms. Fleming's had been interrupted by the belches and ricochets that imbued the droll-dust, every joke was pause-heavy and the chugging of the whole locomotion continued on and so.   "What about you, Kwi-Man? Got jokes?"   "A waiter comes round to the table, it's round as well. 'How did you find that steak?' The attendee paused, 'With my fork, I sweeped off all that spinach and coincidentally... would you believe it? Lo, it was there under all those greens.' "   The stars made themselves more clear on the pages, quivering less. The I-talian had forwent the magazine for a gaze at the gallery of Northward, crickets converged and were picked off for grilling quick. A seeming-semitone rascal had been told to stay bullseye on bark as the rest of the buccaneers took at dart-dealing at him with a harpoon rifle. The harpoon turned grain to his sacrum and the night so became a sacrament to the band, he was dragged by the rope, leaving a rope of his own and they all narcolepsized like flies being picked off at once. The night, she brayed and brushed at all, ivory made it's passage through all their breaths.   The night did her cycle many times and the I-talian had been jaded dredging the shore and saw the leash as a way to stay close to his mates, one of the pirates had let him eat coconut flesh. The schedule was as to ransom him off to his crew but all had assumed he deserted aweigh for the coral, and by the sunrise, he oiled their rifles and took to noodling tarpon for the pirates.   A cruiser had made embargo of the whole focus, all the furrowed faces of the chinooks were cuttled and sanded as the riverine craft breechloaded and breechfired onto and unto until the I-talian was part of the same dorsal stew as the rascals. He had been clinging to a jaundiced chinook like a lover and so the tether of ailed essence and ailed body made its incision in collinear, the two torpedo-totaled as a seagull. The I-talian was welded by name finally not to an industrial pappy but another maritimer foremost and delinquent aft-most, the chinook was in charge of flight while the I-talian just cried weather.   So, yes. He was a fag.