Blue Night

 Blue night, blue night of the pigeons hunting scorpions when she has run around all the empty streets of the desert village or as the little man with the walking stick likes to say, when she has run around all the deserted streets of the empty village – doing what doing what – is what the telephone and the most recent voice on the most recent telephone call had wanted to know – what did she run around the deserted streets of the empty village for (and from this one should know, that who could possibly be writing this passage – perhaps the little man with walking sticks that resemble words [quite unlike what longhaired singers believe in – Tim or Jim or Kim]) – and the most learned or the ones with the most knowing looks who live in the village with silver-gray locks of hair always know or pretend to know the answers to questions like this – especially for questions such as this about rain – they say, she has been running around searching for rain on an asymptote of a hyperbolic curve running along axes with access to all the secret buried hidden deep inside the minds of machines that seem to have learnt that seem to have learnt all or more than all of everything by repeatedly listening to things and in the end, as the scientists confirm, have learnt to think too – or so they think – or so think the machines too: the learned people and the learned machines and the learned cows and cattle that are all happy because where there is rain there would be soft juicy green grass and their minds are programmed to feel happy about things such and that is a cliché of a blessing in disguise or a let’s-try-it-differently disguise in a blessing selling hit puffs and tea infused with lemon juice that children love to drink on hit nights after a long run of running along the asymptotes of a horse-shaped curve in the sky studded with stars that blink, blink, blink