David Joel Friedman? Listen to this:
Zero, said the deadlock. Habeus corpus, said the matter-of-fact. Old, said the tin pan alley.
With this in mind the sawyer blew out the candle and in the dark rubbed elbows with the carboniferous. And by a shoestring guise he awakened the sentiment of the old confabulator. Please, said the touchstone, touch me. Please, said the touch, a plea. An apple if you will, sir, said the halibut. Until at last it was one fish talking to another, and the bubbles rose to the surface. And the flood huddled in the wings, where the trap was, pulled by horses, spun in a genuine conglomerate of seed; like the scree of a metaphor, when you have hugged and pinched it. Like a flugelhorn.
(from The Welcome, University of Illinois Press)