This Shape We’re In

The following is a work of found poetry.  Excerpts were taken at random from Jonathan Lethem's This Shape We're In.  If you have not yet read this book, I suggest you do so.

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Black, absolute.
Gin-blistered nose; an amphitheater                       
       for third eye theatrics.

Awash in the inky depths of
interstellar space, Balkan, a condescending
veneer of thick-billed charm, stretched over a yawning gulf
of boredom and barbecue Kabuki.  

It was absolutely like him
to bury the lead.
Bring this mystical shit into my burrow and drink up my liquor…

Gummy voice.  General jabber along the way
to getting potted,
God Bless marriage, grilling, distilled spirits, and all else that distracts
       from wayward sons and wayward theories

The drum-tight bulge of his drink-swollen belly,           
       highball drained, zipper mask standstill.
Stand still.  Belly-up.

Navigating by the compass of our bender,
soaked in mental fog.  A cacophonous, squalling wall.                       
       Slow motion tableau.
Knock yourself out.
My kingdom for an ice cube!

Acknowpologies.