Maybe The Kid With The Sword Should Attack The Author

My memory held The Lipless Gods as a tight, well-oiled machine.  

Oh ho.  

Oh ho, ho, no.  

47 chapters total.  24 have gone into the belly of the beast, aka Grammarly.  

My favorite instances are dense blocks of text.  

Dense paragraphs are patently unfriendly. I like what I've read of Kafka. I have a lot of Kafka on the shelves, but it goes unread because an absence of paragraph breaks is patently unfriendly.  

I've read lots of Elmore Leonard and some Faulkner.  So what birthed out in places of TLG is this dim-witted sub-creature that can't make up its mind: Am I art or am I actually readable?  

The lines below were a single-block of text.  

Maybe I think there's some ghostly English teacher hovering over me while I type, looking over my shoulder, holding out hope I achieve what they could not, prodding me on to be a show-off.    

The Laundromat located across the street from the Sleepy Bear some sort of socializing mecca.  A half-dozen people in front of the structure, the ones not wrinkled were overweight, and some were both, some going in and out, most staying in one place and clucking conversation. 

The one male in the seeming maelstrom, some hunk of meat in a motorized wheelchair.  A long orange flag sprouted off the wheelchair seat.  Something so motorists would make out the slow mover.  The guy’s chin appeared velcroed to his right shoulder.

The least of his problems, probably. The arms tucked in like he’d seized up in the midst of making fun of T. Rex and its useless little arms.  Flesh-wise, better off aborted, but maybe he was a genius like Stephen Hawking.  The body a betrayal, a real fuck you from God until you realized the three pounds encased in the skull operated at a higher capacity than 99.9% of the rest of the race.  

All the hens around him clucking about this and that local gossip and the whole time the grizzled meat in the polyester throne was solving the how’s and why’s of black holes and anti-matter and classic theorems even escaped Einstein’s reach.  

Sipe imagined the kid with the plastic sword attacking the man in the wheelchair.