Thursday, October 15, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Whispers
Want To Buy: a companion, maybe a friend as well,
will entertain bids up to 180g per annum.
Please Send Tell.
Looking For Group: to piece together this shell,
this life of pixels and processors and self-induced delirium.
Want To Buy: certainty, maybe a friend as well.
Want To Trade: an empty space for something less ethereal,
a whiff of hydrogen, a drop of oxygen, flecks of sodium.
Please Send Tell.
Looking For a Lover: will settle
for marginal understanding, or some disappointing medium.
Want To Buy: a brother, maybe a friend as well.
Want To Sell: not the self, but the collagen fibers of the cells,
the neurons, the arteries, leaving just the worthless sum.
Please Sent Tell.
Looking For Anyone: another body in this empty hell,
someone to see, if only tangentially, through pseudo-love, and pseudo-hate, and all this pseudo- pandemonium.
Want To Buy: an anchor, maybe a friend as well,
Please Send Tell.
-----------------------------
PS Most exchanges in World of Warcraft on public chat channels are heavily abbreviated: LFG for "looking for group", WTB for "want to buy", and PST for "please send tell", a tell being a private message also referred to as a "whisper". Most conversation on public channels consists of twelve year olds being annoying and terse messages beginning with "LFG", "WTB" or whatever, followed by the activity or item in question.
will entertain bids up to 180g per annum.
Please Send Tell.
Looking For Group: to piece together this shell,
this life of pixels and processors and self-induced delirium.
Want To Buy: certainty, maybe a friend as well.
Want To Trade: an empty space for something less ethereal,
a whiff of hydrogen, a drop of oxygen, flecks of sodium.
Please Send Tell.
Looking For a Lover: will settle
for marginal understanding, or some disappointing medium.
Want To Buy: a brother, maybe a friend as well.
Want To Sell: not the self, but the collagen fibers of the cells,
the neurons, the arteries, leaving just the worthless sum.
Please Sent Tell.
Looking For Anyone: another body in this empty hell,
someone to see, if only tangentially, through pseudo-love, and pseudo-hate, and all this pseudo- pandemonium.
Want To Buy: an anchor, maybe a friend as well,
Please Send Tell.
-----------------------------
PS Most exchanges in World of Warcraft on public chat channels are heavily abbreviated: LFG for "looking for group", WTB for "want to buy", and PST for "please send tell", a tell being a private message also referred to as a "whisper". Most conversation on public channels consists of twelve year olds being annoying and terse messages beginning with "LFG", "WTB" or whatever, followed by the activity or item in question.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Americana
Charles, this is in honor of your Thanksgiving Dinner poem. Input appreciated as always.
Americana
10 dollars to park
7 inches of mud
1 mad dash of jaywalking
3 Michael Jackson songs
38 cookouts
1 small Boy Scout selling glowsticks
2 baseball teams
60 minutes to wait
1 huge dark cloud in the South
2 kids shamelessly making out under a tree
3 boys speaking Spanish
4 seconds between raindrops
8 mounted officers
16 piles of horse droppings, at least
379 intermittent illegal private explosions of fireworks
4 impatient family members
45 minutes to wait
1 huge dark cloud overhead
2 worried expressions
5 text messages sent
.34 seconds between raindrops
1 more mad jaywalking dash
1 giant gorilla statue
38 grills still going
2 Johnny Cash songs
.02 seconds between raindrops
1 umbrella blown inside out
1 illegal private explosion, right behind Mom
1 "freakin' deluge"
4 family members in a dry car
1 fairly significant traffic jam
25 rescheduled minutes of fireworks, rain check tomorrow.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Harp Bones
Drawing a comb of reeds and metal sheaths across his crooked teeth
a skinny man who points his fingers at another man who holds his fingers in V’s
curls back the yellowed knuckles. Harp bone marrow leaks through a row of teeth.
Sinful whines emerge from millimetered wooden bars,
bronzed notes from spit-worn vibrations;
Then he lets himself sing a word or so.
Earthquake against tongues mimic a flattened earth
Columbus was wrong, he’d sailed off the edge
and did he know the land made such a melody?
Waves like metal-tasting sounds on hair cells and ossicles
curl back the inner ear like curled fingers over the edge, the grooved
cover plate indented with the names of abstractions,
sounds that cannot be voiced.
The skinny man who used to point fingers like he used to be a Zimmerman
shimmers eyelids behind a harp catching spotlight, making cuts across
enameled teeth and marks in lips of names of sounds, eyes
flittering like breaths rattling the metal reeds in a tiny air coffin
where wind meets the afterlife,
transforms into A’s and B’s and C’s and G sharps.
Sharps like sharp fingernails and piercing 10’s carried by breaths or gasps
in, drawing notes to linger in two lungs, waiting below the ribs to release
and mingle with new notes on a curled tongue, folded
and pressed against wooden knots and holes,
a tongue fold so genetically articulate that each breath must be innate.
A metal box with so many sounds within it:
ribbed compartments jailing chirps and quick, piqued casts of weightless carbon,
a tongue with so many words folded within it; a tongue
like nimble fingers skimming the surface of an oral organ.
A thousand chromatic voices at one second, one origin, one
body. Ten fingers glued together in curves to transfer the winded notes:
V for Victory or Vietnam but A and B and C
and D and on and on to change the times, alternating
inhales and exhales in quick expansions of the ribcage; surging blood
in xylem and phloem of intricately cut wooden encavements. The skinny
man knocks the reed against leather-worn palms
to pound out the saliva and lingering psalms. He
with his stained slender fingers strips the metal armor down
to the wooden skeleton and finds parts of his soul stuck in the crevasses,
carbon bodily scum he scratches away with his smallest fingernails:
clearing space for when his harp soul marrow begins to leak again.
a skinny man who points his fingers at another man who holds his fingers in V’s
curls back the yellowed knuckles. Harp bone marrow leaks through a row of teeth.
Sinful whines emerge from millimetered wooden bars,
bronzed notes from spit-worn vibrations;
Then he lets himself sing a word or so.
Earthquake against tongues mimic a flattened earth
Columbus was wrong, he’d sailed off the edge
and did he know the land made such a melody?
Waves like metal-tasting sounds on hair cells and ossicles
curl back the inner ear like curled fingers over the edge, the grooved
cover plate indented with the names of abstractions,
sounds that cannot be voiced.
The skinny man who used to point fingers like he used to be a Zimmerman
shimmers eyelids behind a harp catching spotlight, making cuts across
enameled teeth and marks in lips of names of sounds, eyes
flittering like breaths rattling the metal reeds in a tiny air coffin
where wind meets the afterlife,
transforms into A’s and B’s and C’s and G sharps.
Sharps like sharp fingernails and piercing 10’s carried by breaths or gasps
in, drawing notes to linger in two lungs, waiting below the ribs to release
and mingle with new notes on a curled tongue, folded
and pressed against wooden knots and holes,
a tongue fold so genetically articulate that each breath must be innate.
A metal box with so many sounds within it:
ribbed compartments jailing chirps and quick, piqued casts of weightless carbon,
a tongue with so many words folded within it; a tongue
like nimble fingers skimming the surface of an oral organ.
A thousand chromatic voices at one second, one origin, one
body. Ten fingers glued together in curves to transfer the winded notes:
V for Victory or Vietnam but A and B and C
and D and on and on to change the times, alternating
inhales and exhales in quick expansions of the ribcage; surging blood
in xylem and phloem of intricately cut wooden encavements. The skinny
man knocks the reed against leather-worn palms
to pound out the saliva and lingering psalms. He
with his stained slender fingers strips the metal armor down
to the wooden skeleton and finds parts of his soul stuck in the crevasses,
carbon bodily scum he scratches away with his smallest fingernails:
clearing space for when his harp soul marrow begins to leak again.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Voyeur
(I'm having issues with the "steam shutter snaps open / then shut" line--I'm not a fan of having shutter and shut close to each other, and I like keeping shutter, but I want something short to replace shut that sounds good and yeah...any suggestions would be appreciated.)
Voyeur
I see them on the street corner
in red Chucks and black Chucks,
drifting in circles across the cement
as they waltz in the rain,
half-exposed behind sheets of steam
hanging over the driveway’s rainwater skin.
I see them as frames
caught in the steady flash
of the streetlight as the
steam shutter snaps open
then shut.
In layers the frames
collect--taped to my windows,
pinned to my walls--and
develop into a flickering kiss.
And as they warm in the
air and rainwatery arms,
I sit in blue Chucks, leeching
heat out of the window pane.
Voyeur
I see them on the street corner
in red Chucks and black Chucks,
drifting in circles across the cement
as they waltz in the rain,
half-exposed behind sheets of steam
hanging over the driveway’s rainwater skin.
I see them as frames
caught in the steady flash
of the streetlight as the
steam shutter snaps open
then shut.
In layers the frames
collect--taped to my windows,
pinned to my walls--and
develop into a flickering kiss.
And as they warm in the
air and rainwatery arms,
I sit in blue Chucks, leeching
heat out of the window pane.
Help
I just started a new story. It's got some hope, I think. But it all feels so heavy handed, so forced, and I want to fix the tone before I get too deep into it. Here are the first four pages. Please. Help me fix this POS.
Apartments
(A Love Story)
Charles C
“Just let me blow you.”
“No. Goodnight.” The couple upstairs is at it again.
“Fine. Fuck you too.” It’s silent, a moment. Then I hear the young man settle into the bed beside his amore. “I love you,” comes through the drywall. I imagine them sharing a tired kiss. Half-bickering, half-bantering, I hear them every few days. It’s cute, sometimes. But it’s weird, too. I don’t know their story. The ghost next door is up now. I smell blood in the thin apartment air. Shit. I say a quiet Hail Mary, turn on the radio, and listen to late night shock jocks until I fall asleep.
Rent is good, here. Location’s not bad. There’s a really nice sushi spot across the street. Old Man Yakima runs the place. He’s very white, very Jewish, and very Japanese in his affectations. It’s weird, but cute too. I see his wife sometimes there, drinking hot sake from a small cup at the end of the bar. Her hair is golden and curly. I can’t tell how old she is. She smiles sometimes, reading the obituaries. I’ve never heard her speak.
I moved into apartment 713 right after graduation. I have a bachelor’s in communications; I work at Kinko’s. I eat a lot of ramen. And I’ve developed a fascination with lists. Here’s one;
APARTMENT RULES
(In order of importance)
1. Do not come in unless you are invited.
2. Take your shoes off in the foyer.
3. Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.
4. Do not open my fridge
And another;
REASONS FOR KISSING
Romantic desire
Erotic desire
Curiosity
Thirst
Boredom
They have something in their teeth and you’re too embarrassed to say anything
Hunger
Loneliness
I’ve kissed for all of these reasons. My first love was named Raquel. She was Brazilian. She was four years older, 11. I was 7. I put my hand on her shoulder when we kissed. I’d never felt so intimate with anyone ever. She blushed. If she had been fluent in English, maybe we would have stayed together. And if we were still together, I wouldn’t need this;
HOW TO GET LAID
1. Get off the sofa. You’re not getting any ass sitting on the couch watching scrubs and eating hot pockets. Getting out of the home is the first step to getting into a lady.
2. Be prepared. Shower, brush your teeth, shit and piss before heading out. Wear clothes that look nice. Not too fancy, not too shabby.
3. Keep the following in your pockets;
a. Breath-mints
b. Floss
c. Small knife (Under 6 inches)
d. Hot Dog (Wrapped in foil so it stays warm)
e. Crack (2 Rocks)
4. Know your area. If you don’t know where the easy ladies like to hang out, you’ll be cruising without purpose, which can add hours onto your night.
5. Be prepared to get dirty
That plan works. Most nights I can get laid in under an hour. But it’s not perfect. A few nights ago, I invited a Miss Gene into my apartment. I found her in an alley, rifling through old bread from a Subway trash bag. I’d been out for about half an hour when I saw her, and I went turgid immediately.
The full moon lit her beautifully; Short, sturdy legs, strong, calloused skin, long, auburn hair. She looked weird, but cute. She was lazily chewing an oregano loaf, one hand resting on the grimy alley wall. I stood and watched her from the entrance of the alley a moment. She looked up, noticed me, and stared. I asked her if she was hungry. I hoped so, hoped she hadn’t sated herself on old bread. She shook her head, didn’t answer.
“It’s not nice to make fun of people. Just cause you think you so much better off. I bet you aint happy at all. I bet you miserable, that why you picking on people,” I offered her the hot dog, wrapped in foil, from my pocket, “I don’t want your charity, sir.”
“It’s not charity. I don’t want it. If you don’t want it, I’ll just throw it away,”
“Well,” she smiled. Her teeth were whiter than most of the ladies I went on dates with, and I fell a little bit more in love, “In that case, it would be a sin waste it. I think Miss Gene can find a little more room in her belly,” and she started towards me. She kept the oregano loaf in one hand. I stepped forward to meet her, passed the hot dog off to her. Our fingers brushed together, softly, in the process.
When I got her home, I left her alone in the dining room, while I poured some raspberry vodka (she had said it was her favorite) and put some 80’s music on, to fuck to. When I got back, she was picking out different organs from my cat, and eating them, languidly. Softpaws was sprawled on the table in front of her, with his legs faintly pawing the air, like he was trying to run away. His eyes were clenched tightly shut. I couldn’t tell if he was making any noise over the Duran Duran from the living room. Miss Gene smiled at me when I came back in, and her teeth were stained red with kitty blood. Something was caught in her teeth. I sighed and reached across the table, took her hands in mine, and led her to the sofa. We made out, passionately, and I pried part of Softpaws out of her teeth with my tongue. He tasted bland.
Miss Gene was gone in the morning, when I woke up. She’d left Softpaws’ carcass behind, though, and I had to clean him up. Once he was in the trash, I sat down at the table and revised my rules down for future guests.
APARTMENT RULES
(In order of importance)
1. Do not come in unless you are invited.
2. Do not eat my cat.
3. Take your shoes off in the foyer.
4. Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.
5. Do not open my fridge
Rent is $200.00 a month. I’ve never seen the landlord. I slip a check under his door every Sunday morning, to the tune of faint electronic leaking out from beyond the doorframe. The landlord (Mr. Bruce) and I communicate by letters. He tells me about his daughter, who moved to California and ‘married’ her roommates. Her name is Java, she lives on the beach, and he says she says she’s very happy. She’s barren now, after being raped by an ex behind a Pier 1 Imports in her neighborhood, giving birth to twins, and getting her tubes tied. Just in case she gets raped again, he says she says.
Which is very noble, I thought. I don’t believe in abortions: Or masturbation. Every time you fuck your left hand, it’s like a tiny genocide; one million lives lost, their corpses soaked into a tissue and thrown away. I have never jacked off. If a lady fails to fuck herself pregnant during a cycle, that’s one life lost, dripped out her nethers and wiped away and forgotten. Even if, during the course of her entire life, a woman lets every tiny unfinished baby in her drip into a maxi pad, she’ll still be millions of murders away from one man’s night in with Brad Fucks Lisa and Gina on DVD.
Apartments
(A Love Story)
Charles C
“Just let me blow you.”
“No. Goodnight.” The couple upstairs is at it again.
“Fine. Fuck you too.” It’s silent, a moment. Then I hear the young man settle into the bed beside his amore. “I love you,” comes through the drywall. I imagine them sharing a tired kiss. Half-bickering, half-bantering, I hear them every few days. It’s cute, sometimes. But it’s weird, too. I don’t know their story. The ghost next door is up now. I smell blood in the thin apartment air. Shit. I say a quiet Hail Mary, turn on the radio, and listen to late night shock jocks until I fall asleep.
Rent is good, here. Location’s not bad. There’s a really nice sushi spot across the street. Old Man Yakima runs the place. He’s very white, very Jewish, and very Japanese in his affectations. It’s weird, but cute too. I see his wife sometimes there, drinking hot sake from a small cup at the end of the bar. Her hair is golden and curly. I can’t tell how old she is. She smiles sometimes, reading the obituaries. I’ve never heard her speak.
I moved into apartment 713 right after graduation. I have a bachelor’s in communications; I work at Kinko’s. I eat a lot of ramen. And I’ve developed a fascination with lists. Here’s one;
APARTMENT RULES
(In order of importance)
1. Do not come in unless you are invited.
2. Take your shoes off in the foyer.
3. Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.
4. Do not open my fridge
And another;
REASONS FOR KISSING
Romantic desire
Erotic desire
Curiosity
Thirst
Boredom
They have something in their teeth and you’re too embarrassed to say anything
Hunger
Loneliness
I’ve kissed for all of these reasons. My first love was named Raquel. She was Brazilian. She was four years older, 11. I was 7. I put my hand on her shoulder when we kissed. I’d never felt so intimate with anyone ever. She blushed. If she had been fluent in English, maybe we would have stayed together. And if we were still together, I wouldn’t need this;
HOW TO GET LAID
1. Get off the sofa. You’re not getting any ass sitting on the couch watching scrubs and eating hot pockets. Getting out of the home is the first step to getting into a lady.
2. Be prepared. Shower, brush your teeth, shit and piss before heading out. Wear clothes that look nice. Not too fancy, not too shabby.
3. Keep the following in your pockets;
a. Breath-mints
b. Floss
c. Small knife (Under 6 inches)
d. Hot Dog (Wrapped in foil so it stays warm)
e. Crack (2 Rocks)
4. Know your area. If you don’t know where the easy ladies like to hang out, you’ll be cruising without purpose, which can add hours onto your night.
5. Be prepared to get dirty
That plan works. Most nights I can get laid in under an hour. But it’s not perfect. A few nights ago, I invited a Miss Gene into my apartment. I found her in an alley, rifling through old bread from a Subway trash bag. I’d been out for about half an hour when I saw her, and I went turgid immediately.
The full moon lit her beautifully; Short, sturdy legs, strong, calloused skin, long, auburn hair. She looked weird, but cute. She was lazily chewing an oregano loaf, one hand resting on the grimy alley wall. I stood and watched her from the entrance of the alley a moment. She looked up, noticed me, and stared. I asked her if she was hungry. I hoped so, hoped she hadn’t sated herself on old bread. She shook her head, didn’t answer.
“It’s not nice to make fun of people. Just cause you think you so much better off. I bet you aint happy at all. I bet you miserable, that why you picking on people,” I offered her the hot dog, wrapped in foil, from my pocket, “I don’t want your charity, sir.”
“It’s not charity. I don’t want it. If you don’t want it, I’ll just throw it away,”
“Well,” she smiled. Her teeth were whiter than most of the ladies I went on dates with, and I fell a little bit more in love, “In that case, it would be a sin waste it. I think Miss Gene can find a little more room in her belly,” and she started towards me. She kept the oregano loaf in one hand. I stepped forward to meet her, passed the hot dog off to her. Our fingers brushed together, softly, in the process.
When I got her home, I left her alone in the dining room, while I poured some raspberry vodka (she had said it was her favorite) and put some 80’s music on, to fuck to. When I got back, she was picking out different organs from my cat, and eating them, languidly. Softpaws was sprawled on the table in front of her, with his legs faintly pawing the air, like he was trying to run away. His eyes were clenched tightly shut. I couldn’t tell if he was making any noise over the Duran Duran from the living room. Miss Gene smiled at me when I came back in, and her teeth were stained red with kitty blood. Something was caught in her teeth. I sighed and reached across the table, took her hands in mine, and led her to the sofa. We made out, passionately, and I pried part of Softpaws out of her teeth with my tongue. He tasted bland.
Miss Gene was gone in the morning, when I woke up. She’d left Softpaws’ carcass behind, though, and I had to clean him up. Once he was in the trash, I sat down at the table and revised my rules down for future guests.
APARTMENT RULES
(In order of importance)
1. Do not come in unless you are invited.
2. Do not eat my cat.
3. Take your shoes off in the foyer.
4. Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.
5. Do not open my fridge
Rent is $200.00 a month. I’ve never seen the landlord. I slip a check under his door every Sunday morning, to the tune of faint electronic leaking out from beyond the doorframe. The landlord (Mr. Bruce) and I communicate by letters. He tells me about his daughter, who moved to California and ‘married’ her roommates. Her name is Java, she lives on the beach, and he says she says she’s very happy. She’s barren now, after being raped by an ex behind a Pier 1 Imports in her neighborhood, giving birth to twins, and getting her tubes tied. Just in case she gets raped again, he says she says.
Which is very noble, I thought. I don’t believe in abortions: Or masturbation. Every time you fuck your left hand, it’s like a tiny genocide; one million lives lost, their corpses soaked into a tissue and thrown away. I have never jacked off. If a lady fails to fuck herself pregnant during a cycle, that’s one life lost, dripped out her nethers and wiped away and forgotten. Even if, during the course of her entire life, a woman lets every tiny unfinished baby in her drip into a maxi pad, she’ll still be millions of murders away from one man’s night in with Brad Fucks Lisa and Gina on DVD.
Monday, June 1, 2009
The Boy
I dunno if this is what you want, Renata. It's a prose-poem/short-story/spoken-word performance piece deal. I really don't know what the hell it is supposed to be. But I hope it can be of use. Ugh, I need to start writing in past tense again. Present tense is ADDICTIVE.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
What They Taught Me About Love
For Kara. Because I love her that much. This is a part of an english group anthology I have to write . . . I like this poem when I read it in sync with "Mama Who Bore Me" from Spring Awakening--it actually works really well. Sorry if the layout gets fucked over . . . you know how blogger is about that sort of thing. [Just checked--the layout isn't really too fucked, but the stuff that gets indented is really supposed to be even more indented than it is here, so that it looks like it's in its own column.]
What They Taught Me About Love
I was born one day to mom and dad
And they taught me a little thing about love
Love was the sacred, unconditional thing
Between a parent and a child
That never wavered, changed, or disappeared.
I started school when I turned five
And they taught me a little thing about love
Love was about sharing
About never being selfish
Always just a part of the community.
Then I was nine and my brother was seventeen
And he taught me a little thing about love
What it sounded like to make love to the girl
You took to prom, but call out the name
Of the Quarterback before you ejaculated
And what it looked like to see mom and dad
Pretend not to hear.
And then I went to middle school
And they taught me a whole lot about hate
What it meant to call a kid a faggot
How to hate everyone who was different
How to hate everyone around me
How to hate hate hate myself.
But then, out of no where, in high school
I met a girl
And she taught me a little thing about love
That faggot wasn’t really synonymous with stupid
That hate was for people who didn’t understand
That she was beautiful, and I was beautiful, and
If we wanted
We were all beautiful.
In high school I met a girl
And she taught me how to love
How to kiss and how to touch and how to feel with every inch of my body and LOVE it.
And how everything they had taught me
Before
Was wrong.
In high school the girl I met
Taught me that love was something beyond prom
Beyond one man and one woman
Taught me that love was something beyond giving
Beyond the stupid notion that taking was selfish
Taught me that love was
Beyond unconditional
That in order to love one had to
Hate a little, too.
And that no matter how many times my parents said
That their love was unconditional
Regardless of my sexual orientation.
They would always hate me a little inside
And a little too much on the outside
And that is what I have learned about love.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
The Burning of Suburbia
So this was my final English short story for the year. I won't lie--half of the reason it's set in a 7-11 is because of Charles' short story. After reading that, I went through this huge phase of writing short stories that take place in 7-11s and this is kind of what came out . . . let me know what you think. It is kind of long.
So, you walk into a seven-eleven. It’s the third Sunday in August, and you’re more than glad to escape the burning sun. A voice replaces the typical welcome bell: “Don’t you dare wear that camisole without a bra ever again, missy.” You spot Eric at the register and sigh; his manicured nails holding the pages of Glamour magazine won’t get you a free slushie today. You suppose that’s alright, you were kind of sick of flirting with seven-eleven perverts anyway, and it doesn’t matter how you look, you feel comfortable in your five dollar sweats and green tank top. Besides, free or not free, you’ll get that slushie.
You don’t just go to the seven-eleven for the slushie, though; there are other things on your shopping list. Maggie wanted a corn dog and last night you ran out of your pretzels trying to perfect that history paper. Brett asked for cigarettes or he’d tell Mom about the fake ID you got last month and Mom mentioned before you left that she’d be out late tonight, so could you please pick up some frozen lasagna for your father? That’s the first thing you grab, from the freezer glowing along the right wall of the store. While you’re at it, you grab a large and cheap bottle of beer because Jacob wanted to head over to the baseball field for a fun-filled night of disgusting alcohol and summertime sweat and what could be more fun? You wander back up to the front of the seven-eleven and set your stuff on the counter, and go back for round two.
You pick up the lukewarm corn dog for Maggie and a pre-made sandwich that hopefully doesn’t have too many tomatoes for lunch, and you walk down aisle seven in search of your favorite brand of pretzels for three entire minutes before another sound is made.
“So tell me, what are you exactly? A man?” you hear Eric say, indicating company.
“Fuck off,” you hear in a woman’s voice. Again, you sigh. You prefer to shop alone. Eric is really the only company you need, and even that’s stretching it. The pretzels, you find, are right in front of you and you grab them and hurry back to the front, in hopes of getting out of the store as soon as possible.
Lasagna, corn dog, pretzels, beer, sandwich, goes the mental tally in your head. Five things. You run back to the back of the seven-eleven for the second-to-last-item: your well-deserved slushie. The largest size is thirty-two ounces and you grab it, attach the round plastic lid, and place the cup beneath the dripping silver spigot. You won’t lie to yourself, blue raspberry is by far your favorite flavor, but the blue doesn’t suit your lips well, so you stick with cherry. You are convinced that boys are attracted to cherry slushie lips.
As you watch the liquid–or is slushie a solid?–sop into the cup, you hear the clunky boots get closer. You stare harder at the cup, wishing that the stupid machine wasn’t so slow so that you can go and buy your deadbeat brother his cigarettes and get out of the seven-eleven. Usually, this place comforts you, because who is in a seven-eleven at this hour of the afternoon in this heat on a Sunday? No one goes anywhere on Sunday, not in this town. Usually, this third Sunday every other month, the seven-eleven is empty for the entire fourteen minutes you need to get your stuff together. And yet, it is undeniable, the damn footsteps are still getting closer.
“What the fuck do you need three watches for?” the owner of the shoes asks, and you’re surprised to see that she’s just a girl, maybe a year or two older than you. She’s about five-eight–almost a foot taller than you could ever hope to be–and isn’t nearly as overweight as most of the people in this city. You slowly bring your gaze down from her head to her feet, where you see the combat boots that you had been picturing stomping around the place for the last several minutes.
“I don’t. Two of them are dead,” you deadpan, having been asked this question far too many times.
“Which two?”
“The gold one,” you say, pointing to it, “and the Mickey Mouse one.” The gold one you got from your grandfather two weeks before he died three and a half years ago. The Mickey Mouse you found in a box of cereal last Christmas, and the battery worked for about a week before it died.
“Well, fuck that,” she says. “I wouldn’t wear them if I were you. Too much dead weight.”
“Eh,” you say, trying to shrug her off. You almost tell her that you wear the gold one because it was the only thing your grandfather left for you in his will, and even if it was broken when you got it, you in your heart that he wanted you to have it for a reason. As for the Mickey Mouse watch, your cousin is only five years old and she loves Mickey Mouse and has one just like it, and it doesn’t matter to you if the watch is broken, you just know that she smiles when she sees you wearing it, when you visit during
school vacations. You almost tell her this stuff, but you don’t. No need to make angry combat boots girl any angrier.
“For real though,” she says, and you’re sure she's about to say something else but she's interrupted by the sound of the door opening again.
“So, how many steroids did your team take this season, Michael Jordan?” You hear Eric greet the newcomers, who ignore him, instead running immediately towards the back of the store. The sounds of sneakers skidding on linoleum hurts your ears.
“How dare you! They're only innocent children,” a woman, who you figure entered with them, exclaims.
“It's approximately three o'clock, do you know where you're children are? Probably not,” Eric replies, and you imagine that he hasn't looked up from his magazine for the duration of the non-conversation. You feel slushie run across your hand as the cup begins to overflow and you hear the girl in the combat boots snicker. You didn’t mean to keep pulling the lever, honestly you didn’t, but it’s too late now. You walk next to the firewood display and grab some napkins, first brushing a strand of hair out of your eye. Combat boots girl laughs again, and you laugh too, because you know you just got slushie mess all in your hair, and there’s no way that sticky stuff will come out until you take a shower. You look at the girl in the combat boots to see if she’s still looking, and she is.
“You’ve got some,” she says, tapping her finger to her eyebrow, and you use the napkin in a half-hearted attempt to clear away some of the mess. Did she really have to be standing there at that moment? Gosh, why is she still standing–your thoughts are cut off by the quickly approaching sound of sneakers-on-linoleum. You don’t want people to see you like this, they aren’t supposed to be here, it’s three in the afternoon! You were so sure that this place would be empty that you didn't even wear a bra. Besides, you were pretty sure that Mike was the one who was supposed to be behind the counter, not Eric. Boy, do you regret that decision now.
You reach out to grab your slushie when the footsteps stop. A chorus of “I want blue!” “Why isn’t there any green?” and “I need to pee!” fills the back of the room and you turn around to face seven little kids. They are not pleasant-looking to any degree of the imagination; you figure that they are, in fact, what an eight year old would look like if he’d been on steroids for a year. They each wear a basketball jersey, colored blue and yellow, with baggy shorts that don’t start until halfway between their waists and their knees. The tallest is only a few inches shorter than you are, which is impressive for a kid his age, and the redhead has a meaner eye than any guy you’ve known in the last three years of high school. A woman comes running up behind them.
“Cody! Andrew! Go to the boys’ room. Dylan and Frank, collect seven corn dogs and do not, I repeat, do not pass go!” she continues to rattle off names and instructions to the boys, and after a few seconds they’ve all disappeared from sight even quicker than they arrived. You look around and you can’t see the girl who was in the combat boots, so you figure she must’ve been scared by the little ones.
“You live here?” the kids’ chaperone asks you.
“Yes, ma’am, all my life,” you say. You can feel the tension build up in the store as you smile, showing off your clean, white, and recently metal-less teeth, and inside you start to pray that they leave. “What brings you here today?”
“Just had a basketball game in Mount Lockleir. I’m their coach. We creamed ‘em, and I told ‘em we’d get corn dogs and slushies on the way back if they were good, and I’d be damned to say that this wasn’t the best that I’ve ever seen ‘em! Truly remarkable these kids are, truly remarkable,” she says, staring over to where Dylan and Frank are trying to figure out how to each hold four corn dogs without dropping anything.
“Well, they sure do seem like a fine group of kids, ma’am,” you say, flashing her another smile as you grab your still-overflowing slushie and walk back to the front of the seven-eleven. Forget the cigarettes, if Brett really needed them he could get his own ass off of the couch. What you really need is an energy drink.
The refrigerators line the right side of the seven-eleven, and you know that the energy drinks are all the way at the end, just your luck. You try to run to the end, anything to get out of there as soon as humanly possible, but before you’re even half way there you have to stop running because two of the little kids are right in front of you. One, the tall one, walks fast and with a sense of purpose. His blue boxers conveniently match his jersey and hang elegantly over the elastic waistband of his shorts. He’s trailed by the shortest of the group, a small boy with glasses whom you can’t help but feel bad for. The small boy is laughing loudly and obnoxiously and you can’t tell why, you just wish you could get past him and his friend.
“So, wait, what was that story? Why did you call me a damn bastard again?” he says, laughing loudly again. The talk kid doesn’t respond. Clearly, this memory encompasses the small kid’s seven seconds of glory, and he’s trying to live it up as best he can. You kind of feel bad for him, and even though you want to push him aside, run ahead, and grab your other drink, you don’t really have the heart for it.
The tall kid rolls his eyes–even though you can’t see his face, you know he’s rolling his eyes–and starts reciting the story. They’re on a bus, a big yellow one, and everyone is sitting in the back. This makes sense to you, you know that the back is always the coolest place to sit. “And you walked up to us in the back and you asked Jay if you could take the seat next to him. Jay said no, you couldn’t, and then you sai–”
“Wait, wait,” the small one says, “let me do it! I told Jay, ‘Get the fuck outta here!’ and then you, you said–”
“I called you a damn bastard because Jay was saving that seat for Mariana and you knew that!”
“Yeah, but everyone laughed when I told Jay to get the fuck outta here, and you know it. You know where I got it from? You know where? I saw Jack sayin’ it to one of his friends after a game. He shoved him to the side and said, ‘Man, get the fuck outta here!’ just like that, just like how I did it. Man, I was a riot, wasn’t I?”
You have given up. You cannot take the story anymore, you gently nudge between the two kids and rush ahead to grab your drink.
On your way back to the register, you see the two kids who were assigned to get corn dogs–Frank and Dylan. The redhead, who you think is Frank, picks up two with one hand successfully, but as he reaches for a third with his other hand, the first corn dog he picked up falls to the ground. Dylan laughs and points at him and you can’t help but snicker a little bit. Frank carefully places the corn dogs safely to the side counter before kicking Dylan in the shins, hard. Dylan grabs his ankle and falls to the floor, his face red and he begins to force tears down his cheeks.
Trying desperately to avoid getting involved, you rush back to the counter, where your slushie (among other things) is waiting for you. You hope that it hasn’t melted–it would be awful if it had melted. The coach is standing at the register, surveying the seven-eleven.
“They’re some fine kids, they are,” she says to you. “Really some remarkable kids. That one George is mine,” she points to the small kid you nudged, “never been so proud of anyone in my whole life.” You imagine that she must not have done much, but you don’t dare say it out loud. You can still hear Dylan crying on the floor, and you want to say something, but the coach’s obvious ignorance holds you back.
Banging comes from the boys’ restroom. Then screaming. The coach walks towards the door and says, “What’s going on in there?” but it’s no use. Cody or Andrew’s screams are muffled by Andrew or Cody’s insistent crying. The coach gives up quickly and returns to the register.
“They’re just having some fun, you know how little boys are.” You want to point out that you’re pretty sure they don’t act like that, but then again Brett is older than you and when you were eight you weren’t really interested in sports. In the back of the store you hear shattering–of glass, plastic, possibly bones–and you’re afraid to look, but you can hear the sound of liquid flooding down to the floor and soon it’s at your feet and you remember that the seven-eleven isn’t really as big as it seems when you have it all to yourself. There are screams too, more of them and louder and you know that the store has at last crossed the line between rambunctiousness and panic.
“They get like this sometimes, but it’s nothing we adults can’t handle. This is my first week on the team you know, George decided he wanted to join last Tuesday. Can’t say we weren’t surprised, he’s not much of an athletic one, but you know what they say–” you’re pretty sure you don’t, “–you’ve gotta let ‘em do what they want to do. We’ve always been supportive, John–that’s my husband–and I.”
You hope that she’ll stop, but she keeps talking, pointing to the tall one and telling you his stats, and you want to get out, you want to get out now. You quickly brave a glance to the back, and it doesn’t matter how quickly you bring your gaze back to the register, you still saw a dented, flooded slushie machine, and what you’re pretty sure was blood and a kid on the floor screaming. Another one, the tall one, starts fisting the vending machine on the other side of the automatic doors. You wonder if it would be possible to break the glass, but you aren’t sure. If anyone could do it, you suppose that this kid could. Eric does not move an inch from behind his Glamour magazine and for once in your life you feel like you understand where he’s coming from.
“Eric, ring me up, please?” you beg him, smiling, hoping that the blue and red mess doesn’t destroy your shoes. Your mom got you these flip flops at the beginning of the summer and you would hate to tell her that you’d ruined them. It takes a full three seconds–yes, at this point you’re counting–for him to move his magazine, and another four for him to place it next to the cash register.
“Miss,” he says to the coach, “could you please tell your devil-spawn to pull up his pants? His boxers really don’t match that jersey so well.” The coach glares at him and takes it as a request to put them back into their places. She walks over to the tall one and tries to pull him away from the machine.
“I am never, ever going to have fucking children,” someone says, and you realize that the girl with the combat boots has returned, with a blue slushie in hand.
“Amen to that, sister,” Eric says, scanning the pretzels.
“Oh, uh, Eric, could you add a pack of cigarettes, please?” you ask him because you suppose you feel bad for Brett. Eric knows you aren’t eighteen, but he puts one of the more expensive packs into your bag, anyway.
In the background chaos continues to ensue, and purple slushie goo pools closer and closer towards your lazy, flip-flop wearing feet, and you question your unconscious decision not to buy painkillers. Each move that Eric makes seems to take minutes instead of seconds, and you wish that your walk home was short enough that you could carry everything instead of needing a plastic bag. You can feel the slushie on the floor begin to push against your flip-flop. Eric hands you your bag and you throw a twenty on the counter, telling him to keep the change even though he certainly doesn’t deserve it. You turn to the door, but combat boots girl is in your way and won’t move. You start to walk around her, but she points to the back of the seven-eleven.
“Go on back in. Your feet can take it,” she says and you roll your eyes but you go anyway, because you know she won’t get out of your way if you don’t. You step carefully into the slushie mess and follow her back towards the root of it all. The closer you get to the back of the store, the thicker the mess gets. You can see it clearly now, the slushie machine with the front punched in and both taps stuck on, but there is no more sweet liquid left in the poor machine to flood the store. The kid lying off to the side a ways, still screaming in pain and clutching his bloodied knuckles. Combat boots girl reaches the end and you see that she’s holding her own seven-eleven bag.
“You’ll probably want to take off your flip-flops. You’re going to need to run,” she says, checking the contents of her bag. You wonder if she’s mentally insane, but figure that it would be too impolite to ask. “I know that it’s gross, but really, you’re going to want to be able to run.” You can’t do much but shrug and slide your feet out of your flip-flops, which were seconds from being destroyed, anyway.
“Now here, hold this,” she says, handing you a metal can. It’s cold to touch, and you look at the label: aerosol.
“What do we need–” you start, but she doesn’t let you finish.
“Eric is such a fucking homo,” she declares. She’s searching around her jacket for something, you aren’t sure what.
“No he’s not,” you say, but only because you know it’s true; you’ve had this discussion with him before.
“I know, but he wishes he fucking was. He’s still a fucking homo,” she says. She pulls a lighter out of an inside pocket. “And what the fuck is up with all these fucking kids?” You shrug. You don’t like where all of this is going. “Is this what we’re fucking teaching everyone?” she continues even though you wish she wouldn’t. Your feet are getting cold and sticky and now, on top of wanting to get out of here, you want to take a shower. “Are we teaching kids to fucking jack up on steroids while they’re young, while they still have a shot of not getting caught? It’s fucking ridiculous. Now, press the button and get ready to run.” It’s almost like she’s saying everything in the same sentence and she’s so convincing, so right, that you start thinking in the same sentence and before you know it, you’re pointing the can towards the firewood display just next to the slushie machine and you’re pressing the button and you tell yourself that it’s just because you’re too tired not to. You’re too tired to deal with all of this . . . this fucking shit. Yeah, that’s right. That makes sense. The girl flicks the wheel of the lighter and produces a small but steady flame, and you stop watching and listen to the screams.
Cody and Andrew are still going at it from the bathroom, which is still locked. You think that Dylan is the one holding his injured hand and if that’s Dylan, then it must be Frank who’s standing off to the side, pointing and snickering and trying to steal bags of potato chips by stuffing them under his shirt. The tall kid is still punching the vending machine and George is still laughing to no one at all, just laughing. You know there was another kid on that bus, you counted seven kids, and you look to your left and to your right for him but it doesn’t matter–the girl has waved her flame in front of the spraying can of aerosol and immediately it catches and everything is orange and red and hot. You want to drop the can and run, but you can hear her muttering, “Come on now, let it burn, let it all burn,” and so you do, you gently wave the can from side to side and you let it all burn. After the firewood, the napkins are the first to catch fire, followed not so shortly by the plastic of the slushie machine.
“To the right, don’t forget to the right! Ah, yes, perfect, watch it go, and now don’t neglect the left, you’re neglecting the left!” the girl in the combat boots instructs like a music conductor, waving her arms around and you take her directions like a clueless child and soon, the walls have caught on and everything is getting hotter by the second, and you almost don’t hear it when she whispers to you, “Drop it and go.”
You do. You don’t care that your feet are cold because you know that the wall behind you is too hot to go back. The only way out is forward. Above the cries of the children, the cackling cannot be heard. You can still hear her in front of you, repeating over and over, “Those fucking kids. On steroids or something. Is this what we teach our fucking kids? Steroids or homo? Fucking kids.” She looks back at you to make sure you’re okay, and together you stop running and you walk the rest of the way to the front of the store, acting as though everything in back is okay. The coach is still trying to calm down the tall kid, trying to talk him through it, and then trying to scold him, threaten him, bribe him. She cries out to him, begging him to stop so that they can get on with it. They won, goddamnit, why aren’t they satisfied?
“She can’t even handle them. She’s such a fraud. Such a fucking fake soccer mom. So fucking afraid of everything.”
Eric still sits there with his magazine, and he has zoned out of the world.
“Such a fucking homo. He doesn’t even turn the page, have you ever noticed that? Forever on the same page, just wants to look like he’s stylish. Fucking homo freak.”
You want the girl to stop. You want the fire in the back to stop, but you can feel the heat move from the back wall to the side, and you still haven’t seen that seventh kid, that stupid seventh kid that you don’t even remember what he looks like or what his name might’ve been.
“And the fucking kids. So loud and obnoxious like they’re already famous. Fucking nerve, fucking kids.”
You hear someone shriek and you turn in every direction. There he is, the seventh little boy, standing over just past the vending machine. He’s looking back, the first one to notice the fire, and he’s yelling loudly but there is nothing to distinguish his yelling from the yelling of Cody or Andrew or Dylan or Frank or George or the tall kid whose name you still don’t know.
“Let’s get out of here,” the girl in the combat boots says and she almost sounds normal. She takes a deep breath and you take a deep breath but you both cough because the place is quickly filling up with smoke. You exit in step with each other, and you aren’t sure if your feet are relieved or petrified at the thought of walking barefoot on the cement sidewalks all the way home. Your mom is going to kill you without those flip flops. You look at the girl and she looks at you.
“You’re fucking different from all of them, alright?” she says, and it’s the first time in the last seven minutes that she hasn’t been able to entirely convince you. “You’re not a fucking homo or a fucking b-baller or a fucking wannabe soccer mom.” You look down at your feet, which have turned purple for what you assume are a number of different reasons. “At first I walked into that place and I thought you were a fucking slut, cause you’re not wearing a bra or nothing, but then I saw your fucking watches, and man, that stuff is wack. Too wack for you to really be a slut. Can’t get action with that fucking stuff.” You don’t know whether you should be flattered or insulted. You nod because you can’t help but agree. The girl turns around and starts to walk off.
“Well I suppose I won’t see you here again?” you say, attempting a laugh.
“No. Fucking slushie,” she says and then she’s gone. She walks away and you know that it doesn’t matter what comment you make or what question you have, she won’t be saying anything else. You turn around and you see that the fire is expanding exponentially–almost the entire back wall is gone and the rest of the building is catching quickly. The fire jumps from space to space and the store fills with more and more smoke, and glowing ashes fall from the ceiling and land on the dividers between the aisles, making sure that everything is equally burned. The flames crawl down the moveable shelves, carefully destroying everything in their path, and then they reach the floor and you see what the girl meant when she said, “Fucking slushie.”
The walls burn down and the shelves burn down and everything burns with them, but as the flames reach the floor they simmer out against the cold, wet texture of the slushie, leaving the linoleum in tact. Nothing can touch the floor, it remains as it was. Black and white. Shining. Covered in blue and red slushie. You wonder if your flip flops in the back of the store will make it, if they can find refuge beneath the moisture and wait it out until morning. The screams, you realize, are beginning to finally fade out behind the cackling. Fire truck sirens are approaching from a far distance. You think about the seven children, one woman, and one man stuck inside, and how it won’t matter to anyone that they were fucking arrogant or fucking oblivious or fucking fake, they’re just dead bodies now, dead bodies that we can pity. No one will know why, why they all had to die, and you keep telling yourself that it all makes sense but really, you have no idea. You turn your back on the seven-eleven and let your red cherry slushie drop to the floor; the idea of slushie just isn’t as appealing as it had been this morning. You turn to the right and you start to walk home with your pretzels and a frozen lasagna and the bottle of beer and a corn dog wrapped in a napkin and the pre-made sandwich and the energy drink and, oh yes, the package of cigarettes.
On the corner is a boy in a blue and yellow basketball jersey. You don’t know his name and you don’t remember hearing the door open; you certainly don’t remember anyone escaping. From a distance you smile and wave, but as you walk past you look down so that maybe he won’t see your eyes and know who you are or what you’ve done. You walk a block before turning back, but it doesn’t matter, the boy is gone, back out into the world, ready to become a basketball star.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Depressing Poetry
Just a note before you read:
This is not directed at any of you guys, since I know you're all so much more creative than what I'm describing here.
Especially for teenagers.
Start off with something easy:
Like death.
That’s always easy.
To write about, at least.
Or maybe how
“No one gets you”.
That’s a favorite.
“My parents don’t get me.”
“My friends don’t get me.”
“The world doesn’t get me.”
“My parents don’t get me.”
I’ve heard that before.
Maybe you can be a little more creative.
So, let’s go back to death.
You can always do stuff with death.
Just think of all the depressing words you can use:
Dark
Deep
Blood
Suicide (this one’s a classic)
Tears
Screams
Fear
Darkness
Darkness
Ooh, I like this already.
You can write it really fast.
See if you can beat five minutes.
You could set the world record for fastest-written depressing teenage poetry.
You can do it anywhere:
In your room,
In Health class,
In that dark
Edgy
Post-modern
Corner of the auditorium
With that out-of-tune piano
That sits there gathering the dust
Of another year of students
Who don’t know how to play.
See, I can do it, too.
Anyone can do it.
It’s easy.
What’s hard
Is writing poetry
That isn’t dark
That isn’t depressing
That doesn’t blend in with all the others.
Now, there’s a challenge.
That’ll take some effort.
Not sure I can do it.
But it’s worth a try.
This is not directed at any of you guys, since I know you're all so much more creative than what I'm describing here.
Depressing Poetry
Especially for teenagers.
Start off with something easy:
Like death.
That’s always easy.
To write about, at least.
Or maybe how
“No one gets you”.
That’s a favorite.
“My parents don’t get me.”
“My friends don’t get me.”
“The world doesn’t get me.”
“My parents don’t get me.”
I’ve heard that before.
Maybe you can be a little more creative.
So, let’s go back to death.
You can always do stuff with death.
Just think of all the depressing words you can use:
Dark
Deep
Blood
Suicide (this one’s a classic)
Tears
Screams
Fear
Darkness
Darkness
Ooh, I like this already.
You can write it really fast.
See if you can beat five minutes.
You could set the world record for fastest-written depressing teenage poetry.
You can do it anywhere:
In your room,
In Health class,
In that dark
Edgy
Post-modern
Corner of the auditorium
With that out-of-tune piano
That sits there gathering the dust
Of another year of students
Who don’t know how to play.
See, I can do it, too.
Anyone can do it.
It’s easy.
What’s hard
Is writing poetry
That isn’t dark
That isn’t depressing
That doesn’t blend in with all the others.
Now, there’s a challenge.
That’ll take some effort.
Not sure I can do it.
But it’s worth a try.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Suburbia
So after basically 3 months of not writing a damn thing, I was sitting in psych class, watching the Dead Poet's Society. About halfway into it, I started to feel an itch of inspiration, so I begged some paper and a pen off a friend and started writing, I wrote about a dozen pages of assorted free verse, and pulled this one out of the scrambled mess tonight. I like it. Formatting it on here to match what I have in word is a pain, so I'm going to just let you guys know this isn't quite the set of funky line breaks I was forcing all over the place in this mother in the real word document, but it's close. I hope my University doesn't expect me to write anything classier than this, because it probably won't happen.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
I'm rather fond of this.
So I went to admit weekend at Davidson right, and met a cool guy and we wandered off into this coffee shop and stumbled upon a folk concert! So there I was, with a new friend, the best latte I have tasted, submerged in the style of music that my neighbor Conor Oberst frequents! What could be better? Naturally I had to write a poem. Input, please!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Amplified Evening"
Folk vibrates through fringe coated with dust
as coffee doubles my burn,
worth it because of quality.
Pretension, perhaps, saturates the roasted air.
The best seat in the house is by a
stranger / friend
learning more about me than I ever care
to tell-
past written words give me away.
A bittersweet shiver reminds my contented core
that...
this can't last.
Things aren't for sure yet.
It's fear:
the future may not be this,
but it's comfort:
it will be some other deep flavor
of the sublime.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
This blog is collecting dust...
I was going through my computer, scrounging for things to use for the two stories I'm writing right now, and I found this thing and decided to post it so this blog feels used (in the good way).
I wrote it for this English thing (i forgot what the assignment was but whatever) and I'm thinking of submitting it to my school's literary magazine (or whatever it qualifies as).
Department Store Surrealism
I’m relatively convinced the universe is hollow. That it is the absence of matter encased in a giant shell, like a fragile egg drained of its yolk and white and put back into the carton—a ruse that is supposed to sustain a family of four, or a generation, or an era of time but never will.
Physically that is not true. The universe is not empty. I know that because there are people here. There are people everywhere—dripping from the walls and climbing out the floors, crawling jaggedly down the sidewalks and rotting in the congregation. They’re clawing at the painted wood door and the polyester carpet while I’m barefoot and drowning in taffeta and lace and price tags and corset wires and invitations and seating arrangements. They’re foaming at the mouth to congratulate me, to taxidermy and preserve me at this exact moment. I am not quite a robust stag, rather a stricken bride. I cannot run in my white heels. I cannot hide behind my lace veil.
The attendant knocks on the door; she huffs and puffs and asks me if I have a proper size, if I like the color, if I’d like to try another style.
But the size is right and the color is fine, the style is okay. Thank you for asking. It’s just the mirror light is too bright. There I am, only pockmarks and dimpled skin—a topography map of some distant landscape, like Mars perhaps—scars and marks stretched across a broken skeleton. Yes, I say, the dress is fine. I forget to say the light is not. I forget to say the awaited night will not be.
They will throw me into a pyre. Or leave me at the altar, nail me to the floorboards and keep me as a sacrificial prayer piece. Oh dear gods, they’ll say over my diet thin body, please don’t make me her, with her size zero dress but no one deserving to share with.
And the attendant says she likes this dress; she says that many women do. I am many women. I am too many women. I am alone in a dressing room with the shadows licking at my ankles through the space at the bottom of the door. But when I open the door the attendant’s face is mushy, like fondant or gum paste, a wedding cake in the rain. She is tired and worn. So am I. Sadly, so will the dress.
I tell her I like it too, but that’s not the issue.
I wrote it for this English thing (i forgot what the assignment was but whatever) and I'm thinking of submitting it to my school's literary magazine (or whatever it qualifies as).
Department Store Surrealism
I’m relatively convinced the universe is hollow. That it is the absence of matter encased in a giant shell, like a fragile egg drained of its yolk and white and put back into the carton—a ruse that is supposed to sustain a family of four, or a generation, or an era of time but never will.
Physically that is not true. The universe is not empty. I know that because there are people here. There are people everywhere—dripping from the walls and climbing out the floors, crawling jaggedly down the sidewalks and rotting in the congregation. They’re clawing at the painted wood door and the polyester carpet while I’m barefoot and drowning in taffeta and lace and price tags and corset wires and invitations and seating arrangements. They’re foaming at the mouth to congratulate me, to taxidermy and preserve me at this exact moment. I am not quite a robust stag, rather a stricken bride. I cannot run in my white heels. I cannot hide behind my lace veil.
The attendant knocks on the door; she huffs and puffs and asks me if I have a proper size, if I like the color, if I’d like to try another style.
But the size is right and the color is fine, the style is okay. Thank you for asking. It’s just the mirror light is too bright. There I am, only pockmarks and dimpled skin—a topography map of some distant landscape, like Mars perhaps—scars and marks stretched across a broken skeleton. Yes, I say, the dress is fine. I forget to say the light is not. I forget to say the awaited night will not be.
They will throw me into a pyre. Or leave me at the altar, nail me to the floorboards and keep me as a sacrificial prayer piece. Oh dear gods, they’ll say over my diet thin body, please don’t make me her, with her size zero dress but no one deserving to share with.
And the attendant says she likes this dress; she says that many women do. I am many women. I am too many women. I am alone in a dressing room with the shadows licking at my ankles through the space at the bottom of the door. But when I open the door the attendant’s face is mushy, like fondant or gum paste, a wedding cake in the rain. She is tired and worn. So am I. Sadly, so will the dress.
I tell her I like it too, but that’s not the issue.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Poemzzz
About The Circus Horse by Marc Chagall
There's only one place to start--the middle, of course--a place for starting near the end of the middle because in the middle of the muddled and muddy rainbow dirt of the circus ring there's this horse wot's been labelled with yellow paint balls and on the horse a whore in a child's prancing, dancing dress, so the whore looks like a cute wedding cake wot's turning into a dress, and she's reaching with muscular triceps for men with much larger biceps prancing along the power lines that hang and sizzle in the orangeorange sun that rides on the back of the side of the side-back of a fire-breathing pig wot's smoking a pipe and getting so big so big the painted jester dances a jig with his calves rippling with lemon, lime, and apricot spots while the creepy old fellow in a Louis XIV gown with grand old Uncle Sam stripes tries to tell you that yu're extra nice and wouldn't you like some candy, little boy?
Vapor Pressure
I'm all twisted up in here
coiled up on myself in here.
The kettle tin, my dear, is boiling my skin
till it peels off like old wallpaper.
You set me here on the stove
and let--inside the Litte Brat's kettle--me boil.
The kinetic transfer of energy--with ever-increasing entropy--
excites molecules of H2O, yields greater vapor pressure,
causes more molecules to fall up from the surface of the water puddle in the middle of the kettle.
In short--I boil inside these walls of branding tin
and my guts bubble and swell--
my lungs and thighs swell
I'm a runner on the line, feeling swell--
Let me out, with a whistle,
please
Let me burst screaming out of the
twisting, searing kettle tin walls
into the
miserably cool kitchen air.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Fall
This started out as a fun little narrative experiment, but than I started taking it seriously and it turned into a story. Anyway, it's probably completely incomprehensible, but feel free to try and dredge some sense out of it if you want to/have lots of free time.
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To the Schoolgirl he was a glittering bomb falling off the edge of a cliff composed entirely of steel and glass that jutted out of the bowels of the city at an angle--a ramp off of which the bomb propelled itself before it caught in the light of the setting sun before descending once more among the towers.
The Businessman, on his way home to another pile of peevish financial reports and new recommendations, thought him a horsed messenger, trampling the spires of the city towers before being brought down upon them with the faintest of thumps.
The Schoolgirl had been about to step onto a bus, quarters rubbing between her fingers, ready to be deposited and converted from Spare Change to Bus Fare. With half her shoe in a puddle of mud-slush, she had paused with the other half of the city as he threw himself from the cliff, the tower, and achieved--for that singular frame of attention--notoriety. And as he fell, picking up speed then sticking at terminal velocity before sticking himself on the spire of the Thomas Building, her imagination raced to catch up. It caught hold of one possibility and another, discarding each in turn as she settled herself in the empty seat at the back right corner of the bus; none were satisfactory.
As the bus rumbled her home, the Schoolgirl contemplated her nonconformity to escape from contemplating The Bomb, found it difficult--the braided links run through her French cuffs looked like bombs, perhaps...Perhaps she ought to dye her hair a nice shade of olive. But The Bomb looked to have been wearing an olive perhaps scarf. The Schoolgirl blinked and uncertainly reprocessed herthoughts she initiated recollecting the events The Bomb’s detonation preceding and I am becoming startlingly confused. There was a--a Bomb--it was, perhaps--that fell “she said to herself before lapsing into silence, watching billboards roll by the windows.
Pausing long enough to buy a newspaper from a raggedy boy with an increasingly hoarse voice, the Businessman wondered how long it would take the police to cordon off the top of the Thomas Building. The news in the paper was old by several hours, nothing as fresh as the brewing commotion incited by the falling horseman, and the Businessman decided that he may as well join the throng; it would spare him from fabricating interesting events for a constantly interested wife for a few hours at least.
As he was waiting for a taxi cab, the Businessman was confronted by the twin sirens of a shoeshiner and a sweetshop, both of which snagged his interest with their seductive wails while creating a sharp color dichotomy. The Black Witch was the more demure of the two, familiar, certain, perhaps less satisfying, while the Rainbow Witch had only entered his awareness during his last few years of searfaring through the Marvelous City of Dis as his children demanded increasingly exorbitant candy tributes. Eventually our valiant Wayfarer/Businessman exchanged three rumpled dollars with the Rainbow Witch for lollipops while placating the Black Witch with assurances that he would return Tuesday next week for a proper shining.
Boarding the skiff that would bear him safely through homeward-bound channels, the Wayfarer/Businessman contemplated with satisfaction the prospect of completing a poem on which he was working. Briefly his thoughts were interrupted by the molten droplet trail that consideration of the Horseman’s plunge onto the Thomas Building dripped across his consciousness, searing holes through his plans. The Distressed Writer/Businessman brushed aside the scalding bits of iron as they rapidly cooled and resumed his pleasant fantasy of the mighty Investment Banker-Poet Laureate’s easy retirement to Cuban cigars, scotch, and Keats.
“Hello Sarah”s greeted the Schoolgirl as she stomped her feet clear of the snow and grime that seemed drawn magnetically to her shoes as she had walked from the bus stop to her house. She returned the “Hello Sarah”s with an indistinct grumble as she nearly cracked a floorboard dropping her backpack. With further sulk building across her mood, sedimenting, layering with thin strips of indifference, the Schoolgirl informed her mother that a bomb had gone off at the top of the Thomas Building as she was getting onto the bus this afternoon, and that certainly was interesting.
But I didn’t mean--no, no--that’s not really what happened. And she bit her lip till it nearly bled, confused by her own uncertainty, and confusion became the freshest layer of silt over her mind. Silt can build just as it destroys, and with this murmured she wandered out of the kitchen to harass the TV away from her brother for a few hours before the inevitable specter of homework claimed the rest of the evening.
Yet the bomb stayed with her as she watched advertisements fry themselves into the back of her eyes, and she couldn’t help wondering if someone had been killed. No, someone had to have been killed--I saw it happen--I saw the bomb go off.
“There wasn’t any bomb on the news, Sarah,” the Schoolgirl’s brother commented, still nursing a screeched ear and a mild afternoon headache
She knew and she didn’t that that was the case of things, that there wasn’t a bomb in the literal Surprise!-I-blew-up-your-porch-and-your-cat-with-it! sense of the sense, But there isn’t a better way of describing it, you know?
Of course he didn’t; she didn’t make any sense. “Why the fuck do you talk like that?”
The brother was, like, totally unaware of her uniqueness as a human being and she, like, wasn’t going to take any more of his crap--you know? “If he wants to be a little drone, he can do as he pleases, thank you kind sir--” but it was a lielielie (and yet not)--because-- “Because I don’t know--I the story I can’t out get it--get it out! She was so certainly a special, unique snowflake--she was certain.”
And she made no sense whatsoever, and was rather stupid and pretentious. The brother thought, anyway.
The schoolgirl sighed and informed her brother that he was an idiot and that I want you to go away right now! She was having a difficult duration of twenty-four hours. But that wasn’t the right sense of weighing things either. Damn.
Mrs. Albatross was a great woman of a bird, with her nurse-esque hat sprouting a head from underneath it--a strange egg that continually emitted squawks and vexing questions. Mrs. Withers-as-her-real-calling-by-others-goes spouted another squawk from her egg that walked something like, “Alright, Sarah--why don’t you tell me about the kind of day that you’ve been having? You went to school today--didn’t you? Did anything interesting happen?”
There was a bomb that went sailing away, away, away andthat’sallshecouldremember, but that was yesterday/perhaps. Sheputherheadinherhands’causeherbrowwasburningburningburninganditbotheredhersoyesitdid.
“Have you had any tests in the last few days? You mentioned that your history teacher--Mr Andrews, was it?--had been giving you a hard time, because you couldn’t focus...” The albatross flapped closer to the schoolgirl and awfully frighted she
I--I--I--
“Sarah...”
Sigh, sigh--she sighs and sighs but the words won’t come out because they’re stuck--and they both know it.
Resettling upon her nest, Mrs. Withers shuffled through notes of hers--sweet and sour and we’re going to have the Pinot Grigio with it, aren’t we? or that wouldn’t fit so well--the schoolgirl chuckled at her impositionedfabrications. Impofabritactions. Fabricatimposits. Nonsense really; just a moment of clarity, for me, but she doesn’t know that, so what should she know? She’ll tell mother and father, and they think I’m messed up anyway...
“I’m worried about your stress levels, Sarah--and so are your parents...”
And in a drunken stupor we’ll dance ‘round the kitchen table, empty bottles and plates waiting to eat up our shining faces--t’will be most grand, darling--yes theschoolgirlthoughtherselfclever,forherimpofabricationsthatwerealmost true.
Mrs. Withers didn’t like this part notonebitthankyou, where she would try to make She recount things, tell things, story-tell. “Something must have happened that was interesting.”
A bomb, already-- “I saw a bomb fall on top of the place--the--the--”
“Sarah, you know that there aren’t any bombs falling, or even around here, in the first place...”
“The fall...”
The schoolgirl contorted yes she contorted because it hurt--hurthurthurt--to try to get the things inside of her switched over with the things outside of her. Togetthestoryout--anaxetocutthewolf (No, that was not the correct reference, not the thing she was looking for.)
“Sarah, I don’t understand--axes? Wolves? Bombs? Dear, I’m afraid you’re going to need to be a little less...symbolic.”
There of course were not symbols that the schoolgirl could use to turn a symbol world into a symbol of the symbol world that the non-symbol world could understand so there wasn’t any point trying She thought that the Albatross was rather silly trying to cross the inner and the outer like that because it hurt too much to be worthwhile No No No it was better to just curl up and wait for things to be over You didn’t need to tell your story because no-one was listening, never But I should try maybe because the Albatross is nice on sunny days. Cloudy ones too...
She’s nice all the time (her job, after all)
“The schoolgirl stands up, prances about the psychiatrist’s office (Number Fifteen-Twenty-three on Maple Corner in the Grand City of Dis, office of one Maybell Withers, MD, aged fifty-thee, recently contracted by Mr. and Mrs. Supportcharacter/parent for the purpose of alleviating perceived excesses of stress in their elder progeny of the female gender [occupation: student]) and knits her fingers apart as she attempts to formulate a semi-comprehensible account of what she herself did not properly understand...so she said...” I was getting off of the bus and I was so confused, still am confused--
AtwhichpointtheAlbatrossbecamesorelyvexedyeteagertohearthestory:
“Start at the beginning, the beginning, dear--”
Oh, the beginning, yes. “I got on the bus, to go home.” Except it was before that, what whatever. “Just a bus of the city variety--two dollars, one way home but no way out--oh, no that’s against what I was trying to say.”
Mrs. Withers with a sigh “Try and get it out, Sarah--try as hard as you can--I think this is important, more important than we realize--whatever it is that’s going on, whatever block you’ve developed...” said.
“The wheels on the bus go round and round and we roll through town and the bomb falls down...”
Mrs. Albatross flapped squawked and Ireallydon’tseethepointifyou’renotgoingtotakethisseriously--
Oh, you are so silly, Mrs. Withers girling twirl hair her as this she said. Down onto the Thomas building.
! The Thomas Building! The suicide on the news !
Squawk flap gasp the albatross thought
Yesyes the bomb did fall on the Thomas Building and I fell all the way--no, the bomb was watching me fall--but--
Clickclicklclick went ten thousand thoughts all at once and Mrs. Withers couldn’t click to think--think to click--”Um”...
Air traffic control: we are having a major breakthrough
I copy that, Houston--we are experiencing communication failures on a grid-wide basis.
“We fell, he fell, hell fell apart and I don’t know where to start this, now that I’ve ended. And I am one very upset schoolgirl, having been unable to relay this simple eventful happening, and indeed, ‘tis vexing to not be able to hear what you want others to say, but that’s not it at all--not at all. “Well, damn.”
My brother is a real prick, you know. “She thought also,” You certainly wouldn’t know about that, though--just worry about your wine selection for the evening, how well dressed your beau/man/trophy/dildo is. A well dressed dildo indeed.
and i am so am so am so sorry for the bomb fell and blew my story to bits so i’m so sorry you see i couldn’t agree more with your vexation for i am sorely vexed as well and it’s not just my brother’s fault actually he had nothing to do with it for once it was just this bomb that fell and blew apart apart apart something i’m not sure what but it was important.
“Dear, darling, please slow down, this is all too much to properly process, if you please.” The albatross polished its egg with cloth sprouting from its wing for the purpose of blowing the noses of one and/or wicking away sweat time mannerly in. “So you saw a bomb--a man--fall onto the Thomas Building?”
“And then I found twenty bucks.” Not really, it was quite a blast to see it go off, leveling everything the eye could see. Not really, of course, but in the more metaphorical, burn down your mind like the metaphorical Surprise!-I-blew-up-your-porch-and-your-cat-with-it! bomb sort of way.
“It’s not funny, saying things like that--about blowing up cats and all.” And the albatross was quite indignant. “But really, Sarah, there was a man, and he killed himself by jumping onto the Thomas Building from the--oh, what was it now? I can’t quite recall...” And the albatross repeated a question, to which the schoolgirl had the kindness to supply and answer.
You can tellmeastory yourstory storyany pleasejusttryoncemore.
I-I-I-I-can’t--because--I-can’t-get-the-words out. The girl was sorely pleased. Because--it’s because I am a very special snowflake.
And the albatross was lightly vexed. Sorely, no--light--the lights, bring them please. And the albatross was thereisnopurposetothisIcan’tmakeheadsORtails
And much the session will proceed like this.
“I really am, sorry, but I think she may have experienced some sort of...breakdown, though I couldn’t for the life of me find a fairly fair cause of it, though a calamity it may certainly constitute.” And dear God what was she saying?
Mr. and Mrs. Supportcharacter/parent blinked till incredulous lizards leaked from their eyes. “What on earth are you trying to say, Mrs. Withers? You’ve told us over and over, there’s nothing wrong with her on a fundamental, psychological basis...”
“I am sincerely certain that she’s lost her ability to vent pipes filled with pressurized steam that constitute the inner dialectical workings of her primary persona--” And the albatross the Mr. and Mrs. Supportcharacter/parent thoroughly confused.
The businessman concerned himself with finding a dining establishment, having decided that he had little and less interest in returning to his castle, so the Knight Errant/Businessman ordered his minister of travel to conduct him by various ways and roads to a pub of the local variety, a Watering Hole to which he attached himself with some frequency, exchanging scrolls of battle tallies and new reports of old lineages with fellow men of chivalric character. And yet the Knight Errant/Businessman had certain motives not pertaining to the usual sustenance of life to which the general water-filled holes are assigned--rather, he endeavored to ensnare certain damsels of loose character, who positively glowed next to his own depravity.
With such thoughts upon his mind the Heathen/Businessman entered the Underworld through a main door of heavy black oak and immersed himself in Sin and Smoke. Infernals bounded about him in liquid deliriums, prancing their satanic rites and jabbering in tongues the Bewildered Heathen/Businessman could barely comprehend. The Tender of the Floodgates inquired as the nature of the pleasure that the Heathen/Businessman was seeking upon that evening, to which the latter replied:
“I am in need of certain refreshments of the warming variety, the nectar of the Gods as some are given to calling it--this nectar being the finest of the scotch variety, a delicacy of these local barbarian lands, and one of its more redeeming qualities, amidst all of this uncivilized rabble.”
Rather flabbergasted, the Tender of the Floodgates supplied the pleasure in question in a glass chalice of diminutive stature, stamped upon the bottom with the fine heraldic crest of its maker, and muttered that “Mr. Jakes ‘as lost ‘is bloody marbles. Good God, I couldn’t make ‘eads or tales o’ that load o’ rubbish.”
Settling himself upon a narrow cot in the corner of the Barracks, the Verbal Soldier/Businessman proceeded to sniff and occasionally imbibe his daily ration while looking darkly at the members of his platoon. For a time the Verbal Soldier/Businessman embarked upon the task of drafting a detailed report of the day’s combat through the woodlands of his cerebellum, drawing up a complex network of figures that he sincerely hoped HQ would be able to decipher without an excess of difficulty. The going was slow at best, for his rations failed to satisfy the anxiety that he faced at the prospect of another excursion toward the main camp to resupply and rest as he had not been on the best terms with the brigadier general for the past several weeks. Adding to his difficulties was the inconvenience and incoherence of the scouting reports that he had received, which constituted the bulk of the day’s findings. Indeed, he himself found them devilishly hard to decipher, and converting them into a pleasing report by which they might be conveyed to the army at large was a task that he did not feel himself qualified for, and yet he persevered.
The Verbal Soldier/Businessman set aside his report and began to compose a short, entertaining ditty for his soldiers, rather bawdy and certainly nothing he would ever want his commanding officers to catch a glimpse of, but something that ought to raise morale and which may even be suitable for pushing him past the impasse that he seemed to have arrived at.
Half an hour later, as the main scouting parties were preparing to depart once more, a messenger of the female gender entered the barracks and went unnoticed by the Verbal Soldier/Businessman, who was occupied by the inquiry of an orderly as to whether he required further rations, to which the fellow in question replied in the affirmative.
Having failed entirely in his composition of a Virulent Spell, the Warlock/Businessman quaffed an excess of a bitter Potion which did little to repair his foul mood, though it did bring about a fit of coughing on his part that rather perturbed his Assistant/Overseer, who offered once again to bring further rounds of the Potion in question, which the Warlock/Businessman politely declined between heavy gasps. The Warlock/Businessman, upon regaining some modicum of his former composure, noticed the entrance of a slim Damsel (Potentially Though Not Certainly In Distress) and set about immediately toward the goal of corrupting her.
“Why, my fine, young salmon, would you care to sample the various baits of this fine establishment at my expense,” the Warlock/Businessman inquired and garnered by way of response a raised eyebrow.
“Um...What the hell?”
The Warlock/Businessman’s scrying spells indicated a level of disorientation that in turn propagated itself within his plots.
Executing a positional realignment, the Damsel sent the following message to the Warlock/Businessman’s Assistant/Overseer through traditional acoustic channels: “Is he...?”
“Oh, he’s, well, I don’t rightly know what’s up with ‘im tonight...He’s always a bit odd--fancies ‘imself a poet, ‘mong other things, though I couldn’t right give ‘im that distinction. Still, Mr. Jakes is a decent enough fellow. Certainly wouldn’t kill ya to pick up a few drinks on ‘is account...”
Deciphering the encrypted transmission, the Damsel settled herself onto a chair opposite the Warlock/Businessman and contemplated the Potion set before her by the Assistant/Overseer.
“You are a rather fine fur coat, if you don’t mind my saying so,” the Warlock/Businessman began before snagging upon the marshy bottom of the river.
“I’ll pretend that was a compliment.” The Damsel removed with surgical precision a minor tumor protruding from the cotton exterior coating her arm. “So...”
A disturbance of the normal downstream flow of the Thinkers’ oral waters occurred for some moments, whereupon the Warlock/Businessman launched a rocket armed with a nuclear payload with the intention of intercepting and destroying the aforementioned Disturbance before it incited a Calamitous Disaster.
He began in the following manner: “At the outset of my voyage through the arteries of this Human Warren, I encountered a rather peculiar specimen of--well, I don’t know well rightly what it may have been--”
“Whoa, buddy--cut the syllable count, maybe?”
The aforementioned disturbance was initiated once more, but in repetition, the Warlock/Businessman attempted an explosive intercept of the Asteroid/Brewing Calamity in question.
“A Horseman, all enwrapped in gilded armor and flapping, crimson banners, stood upon the peak of a great mountain and raised his lance once with a yell before plunging from the peak and sundering himself upon another below.” The Warlock/Businessman called a timeout to allow his players to recover before the next offensive flurry, only to be thrown suddenly into defense by way of a sudden turnover near the blue line:
“That’s interesting. Would you mind getting me another drink?”
The sudden parry and counter thrust performed by the Warlock/Businessman was to the effect of “Certainly”, which the internal computations of the Damsel found the integrative summation to be I might as well keep mooching off this guy, even if he is bat shit crazy.
“So anyway, you were saying--what, some guy on a horse fell off a building and landed on another one? That’s...a little odd. It wasn’t on the news or anything.”
“By ‘horseman’ I have crafted a carefully structured haiku by which I mean to laboriously haul across many miles the dream-prophecy of ‘Gallant figure, beaten down by higher powers wishing constantly for his demise and against which he cannot hope to attain by final victory, but by struggling onward in such a noble yet fruitless quest he attains a certain Immortality which none, not even the Great Destroyer of Nations and Mountains, can wrest from his grasp--”
“I don’t follow. At all.”
Having been stymied in his efforts of gallantry equal to his subject, the Painter/Businessman set down his brush and inspected the canvas upon which he had been working. The Painter/Businessman thereupon entered a mood of incredible foulness as he stood upon a promontory and observed a small vessel of enjoyment beyond the bounds of the Infernal Emotional and Social Contract slip quietly over the horizon.
“I really think I should be going...”
Throwing himself in one desperate, final effort upon the spearhead of the enemy advance, the Doomed Hero/Businessman murmured, “No, I must make a final try, I must make you see the emotional underpinnings of this collage--No, this poem--No, that’s not what I am intending to weave.”
“Look, would you cut the fucking poetics already--I mean God, you’re so strung up--”
“There was a horseman and he fell--”
“This is ridiculous; I’m out of here.” And the Damsel/Rocket shook loose its moorings and rose on a cushion of combusting hydrogen and oxygen toward the stars, sheets of ice cascading from its sides.
“--he fell and dashed himself upon a Spire of--of--of--”
Twinkling in the night sky, the Star/Damsel flashed for a single brilliant moment and then vanished into the blackness that overwhelmed the Heart of the Doomed Hero/Businessman.
And the Businessman read various newspaper clippings reporting a stunning defeat on the Emotional Front which drove him toward a familiar birdcage, as he often was in the evening.
And the Bartender watched him stumble out the door, fouled up by his usual weaknesses. Polishing the bar with a soft cloth, he caught the headlines of a few newspapers left by long-gone customers on chairs and table tops:
Historian Suicide! Read all about it inside, b13!
A stand--or leap--for history; Death follows!
Thomas Building proprietor to sue family of the deceased!
Advertising agency renting building Distressed by bad press!
“He just wanted the real story,” claims Grieving Widow!
The Bartender tossed his polishing cloth into a bin and threw the abandoned newspapers in the trash, pausing momentarily on a final headline:
Teen singer/idol Alicia Monsoon claims songs “Don’t need less story, more feeling”!
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To the Schoolgirl he was a glittering bomb falling off the edge of a cliff composed entirely of steel and glass that jutted out of the bowels of the city at an angle--a ramp off of which the bomb propelled itself before it caught in the light of the setting sun before descending once more among the towers.
The Businessman, on his way home to another pile of peevish financial reports and new recommendations, thought him a horsed messenger, trampling the spires of the city towers before being brought down upon them with the faintest of thumps.
The Schoolgirl had been about to step onto a bus, quarters rubbing between her fingers, ready to be deposited and converted from Spare Change to Bus Fare. With half her shoe in a puddle of mud-slush, she had paused with the other half of the city as he threw himself from the cliff, the tower, and achieved--for that singular frame of attention--notoriety. And as he fell, picking up speed then sticking at terminal velocity before sticking himself on the spire of the Thomas Building, her imagination raced to catch up. It caught hold of one possibility and another, discarding each in turn as she settled herself in the empty seat at the back right corner of the bus; none were satisfactory.
As the bus rumbled her home, the Schoolgirl contemplated her nonconformity to escape from contemplating The Bomb, found it difficult--the braided links run through her French cuffs looked like bombs, perhaps...Perhaps she ought to dye her hair a nice shade of olive. But The Bomb looked to have been wearing an olive perhaps scarf. The Schoolgirl blinked and uncertainly reprocessed herthoughts she initiated recollecting the events The Bomb’s detonation preceding and I am becoming startlingly confused. There was a--a Bomb--it was, perhaps--that fell “she said to herself before lapsing into silence, watching billboards roll by the windows.
Pausing long enough to buy a newspaper from a raggedy boy with an increasingly hoarse voice, the Businessman wondered how long it would take the police to cordon off the top of the Thomas Building. The news in the paper was old by several hours, nothing as fresh as the brewing commotion incited by the falling horseman, and the Businessman decided that he may as well join the throng; it would spare him from fabricating interesting events for a constantly interested wife for a few hours at least.
As he was waiting for a taxi cab, the Businessman was confronted by the twin sirens of a shoeshiner and a sweetshop, both of which snagged his interest with their seductive wails while creating a sharp color dichotomy. The Black Witch was the more demure of the two, familiar, certain, perhaps less satisfying, while the Rainbow Witch had only entered his awareness during his last few years of searfaring through the Marvelous City of Dis as his children demanded increasingly exorbitant candy tributes. Eventually our valiant Wayfarer/Businessman exchanged three rumpled dollars with the Rainbow Witch for lollipops while placating the Black Witch with assurances that he would return Tuesday next week for a proper shining.
Boarding the skiff that would bear him safely through homeward-bound channels, the Wayfarer/Businessman contemplated with satisfaction the prospect of completing a poem on which he was working. Briefly his thoughts were interrupted by the molten droplet trail that consideration of the Horseman’s plunge onto the Thomas Building dripped across his consciousness, searing holes through his plans. The Distressed Writer/Businessman brushed aside the scalding bits of iron as they rapidly cooled and resumed his pleasant fantasy of the mighty Investment Banker-Poet Laureate’s easy retirement to Cuban cigars, scotch, and Keats.
“Hello Sarah”s greeted the Schoolgirl as she stomped her feet clear of the snow and grime that seemed drawn magnetically to her shoes as she had walked from the bus stop to her house. She returned the “Hello Sarah”s with an indistinct grumble as she nearly cracked a floorboard dropping her backpack. With further sulk building across her mood, sedimenting, layering with thin strips of indifference, the Schoolgirl informed her mother that a bomb had gone off at the top of the Thomas Building as she was getting onto the bus this afternoon, and that certainly was interesting.
But I didn’t mean--no, no--that’s not really what happened. And she bit her lip till it nearly bled, confused by her own uncertainty, and confusion became the freshest layer of silt over her mind. Silt can build just as it destroys, and with this murmured she wandered out of the kitchen to harass the TV away from her brother for a few hours before the inevitable specter of homework claimed the rest of the evening.
Yet the bomb stayed with her as she watched advertisements fry themselves into the back of her eyes, and she couldn’t help wondering if someone had been killed. No, someone had to have been killed--I saw it happen--I saw the bomb go off.
“There wasn’t any bomb on the news, Sarah,” the Schoolgirl’s brother commented, still nursing a screeched ear and a mild afternoon headache
She knew and she didn’t that that was the case of things, that there wasn’t a bomb in the literal Surprise!-I-blew-up-your-porch-and-your-cat-with-it! sense of the sense, But there isn’t a better way of describing it, you know?
Of course he didn’t; she didn’t make any sense. “Why the fuck do you talk like that?”
The brother was, like, totally unaware of her uniqueness as a human being and she, like, wasn’t going to take any more of his crap--you know? “If he wants to be a little drone, he can do as he pleases, thank you kind sir--” but it was a lielielie (and yet not)--because-- “Because I don’t know--I the story I can’t out get it--get it out! She was so certainly a special, unique snowflake--she was certain.”
And she made no sense whatsoever, and was rather stupid and pretentious. The brother thought, anyway.
The schoolgirl sighed and informed her brother that he was an idiot and that I want you to go away right now! She was having a difficult duration of twenty-four hours. But that wasn’t the right sense of weighing things either. Damn.
Mrs. Albatross was a great woman of a bird, with her nurse-esque hat sprouting a head from underneath it--a strange egg that continually emitted squawks and vexing questions. Mrs. Withers-as-her-real-calling-by-others-goes spouted another squawk from her egg that walked something like, “Alright, Sarah--why don’t you tell me about the kind of day that you’ve been having? You went to school today--didn’t you? Did anything interesting happen?”
There was a bomb that went sailing away, away, away andthat’sallshecouldremember, but that was yesterday/perhaps. Sheputherheadinherhands’causeherbrowwasburningburningburninganditbotheredhersoyesitdid.
“Have you had any tests in the last few days? You mentioned that your history teacher--Mr Andrews, was it?--had been giving you a hard time, because you couldn’t focus...” The albatross flapped closer to the schoolgirl and awfully frighted she
I--I--I--
“Sarah...”
Sigh, sigh--she sighs and sighs but the words won’t come out because they’re stuck--and they both know it.
Resettling upon her nest, Mrs. Withers shuffled through notes of hers--sweet and sour and we’re going to have the Pinot Grigio with it, aren’t we? or that wouldn’t fit so well--the schoolgirl chuckled at her impositionedfabrications. Impofabritactions. Fabricatimposits. Nonsense really; just a moment of clarity, for me, but she doesn’t know that, so what should she know? She’ll tell mother and father, and they think I’m messed up anyway...
“I’m worried about your stress levels, Sarah--and so are your parents...”
And in a drunken stupor we’ll dance ‘round the kitchen table, empty bottles and plates waiting to eat up our shining faces--t’will be most grand, darling--yes theschoolgirlthoughtherselfclever,forherimpofabricationsthatwerealmost true.
Mrs. Withers didn’t like this part notonebitthankyou, where she would try to make She recount things, tell things, story-tell. “Something must have happened that was interesting.”
A bomb, already-- “I saw a bomb fall on top of the place--the--the--”
“Sarah, you know that there aren’t any bombs falling, or even around here, in the first place...”
“The fall...”
The schoolgirl contorted yes she contorted because it hurt--hurthurthurt--to try to get the things inside of her switched over with the things outside of her. Togetthestoryout--anaxetocutthewolf (No, that was not the correct reference, not the thing she was looking for.)
“Sarah, I don’t understand--axes? Wolves? Bombs? Dear, I’m afraid you’re going to need to be a little less...symbolic.”
There of course were not symbols that the schoolgirl could use to turn a symbol world into a symbol of the symbol world that the non-symbol world could understand so there wasn’t any point trying She thought that the Albatross was rather silly trying to cross the inner and the outer like that because it hurt too much to be worthwhile No No No it was better to just curl up and wait for things to be over You didn’t need to tell your story because no-one was listening, never But I should try maybe because the Albatross is nice on sunny days. Cloudy ones too...
She’s nice all the time (her job, after all)
“The schoolgirl stands up, prances about the psychiatrist’s office (Number Fifteen-Twenty-three on Maple Corner in the Grand City of Dis, office of one Maybell Withers, MD, aged fifty-thee, recently contracted by Mr. and Mrs. Supportcharacter/parent for the purpose of alleviating perceived excesses of stress in their elder progeny of the female gender [occupation: student]) and knits her fingers apart as she attempts to formulate a semi-comprehensible account of what she herself did not properly understand...so she said...” I was getting off of the bus and I was so confused, still am confused--
AtwhichpointtheAlbatrossbecamesorelyvexedyeteagertohearthestory:
“Start at the beginning, the beginning, dear--”
Oh, the beginning, yes. “I got on the bus, to go home.” Except it was before that, what whatever. “Just a bus of the city variety--two dollars, one way home but no way out--oh, no that’s against what I was trying to say.”
Mrs. Withers with a sigh “Try and get it out, Sarah--try as hard as you can--I think this is important, more important than we realize--whatever it is that’s going on, whatever block you’ve developed...” said.
“The wheels on the bus go round and round and we roll through town and the bomb falls down...”
Mrs. Albatross flapped squawked and Ireallydon’tseethepointifyou’renotgoingtotakethisseriously--
Oh, you are so silly, Mrs. Withers girling twirl hair her as this she said. Down onto the Thomas building.
! The Thomas Building! The suicide on the news !
Squawk flap gasp the albatross thought
Yesyes the bomb did fall on the Thomas Building and I fell all the way--no, the bomb was watching me fall--but--
Clickclicklclick went ten thousand thoughts all at once and Mrs. Withers couldn’t click to think--think to click--”Um”...
Air traffic control: we are having a major breakthrough
I copy that, Houston--we are experiencing communication failures on a grid-wide basis.
“We fell, he fell, hell fell apart and I don’t know where to start this, now that I’ve ended. And I am one very upset schoolgirl, having been unable to relay this simple eventful happening, and indeed, ‘tis vexing to not be able to hear what you want others to say, but that’s not it at all--not at all. “Well, damn.”
My brother is a real prick, you know. “She thought also,” You certainly wouldn’t know about that, though--just worry about your wine selection for the evening, how well dressed your beau/man/trophy/dildo is. A well dressed dildo indeed.
and i am so am so am so sorry for the bomb fell and blew my story to bits so i’m so sorry you see i couldn’t agree more with your vexation for i am sorely vexed as well and it’s not just my brother’s fault actually he had nothing to do with it for once it was just this bomb that fell and blew apart apart apart something i’m not sure what but it was important.
“Dear, darling, please slow down, this is all too much to properly process, if you please.” The albatross polished its egg with cloth sprouting from its wing for the purpose of blowing the noses of one and/or wicking away sweat time mannerly in. “So you saw a bomb--a man--fall onto the Thomas Building?”
“And then I found twenty bucks.” Not really, it was quite a blast to see it go off, leveling everything the eye could see. Not really, of course, but in the more metaphorical, burn down your mind like the metaphorical Surprise!-I-blew-up-your-porch-and-your-cat-with-it! bomb sort of way.
“It’s not funny, saying things like that--about blowing up cats and all.” And the albatross was quite indignant. “But really, Sarah, there was a man, and he killed himself by jumping onto the Thomas Building from the--oh, what was it now? I can’t quite recall...” And the albatross repeated a question, to which the schoolgirl had the kindness to supply and answer.
You can tellmeastory yourstory storyany pleasejusttryoncemore.
I-I-I-I-can’t--because--I-can’t-get-the-words out. The girl was sorely pleased. Because--it’s because I am a very special snowflake.
And the albatross was lightly vexed. Sorely, no--light--the lights, bring them please. And the albatross was thereisnopurposetothisIcan’tmakeheadsORtails
And much the session will proceed like this.
“I really am, sorry, but I think she may have experienced some sort of...breakdown, though I couldn’t for the life of me find a fairly fair cause of it, though a calamity it may certainly constitute.” And dear God what was she saying?
Mr. and Mrs. Supportcharacter/parent blinked till incredulous lizards leaked from their eyes. “What on earth are you trying to say, Mrs. Withers? You’ve told us over and over, there’s nothing wrong with her on a fundamental, psychological basis...”
“I am sincerely certain that she’s lost her ability to vent pipes filled with pressurized steam that constitute the inner dialectical workings of her primary persona--” And the albatross the Mr. and Mrs. Supportcharacter/parent thoroughly confused.
The businessman concerned himself with finding a dining establishment, having decided that he had little and less interest in returning to his castle, so the Knight Errant/Businessman ordered his minister of travel to conduct him by various ways and roads to a pub of the local variety, a Watering Hole to which he attached himself with some frequency, exchanging scrolls of battle tallies and new reports of old lineages with fellow men of chivalric character. And yet the Knight Errant/Businessman had certain motives not pertaining to the usual sustenance of life to which the general water-filled holes are assigned--rather, he endeavored to ensnare certain damsels of loose character, who positively glowed next to his own depravity.
With such thoughts upon his mind the Heathen/Businessman entered the Underworld through a main door of heavy black oak and immersed himself in Sin and Smoke. Infernals bounded about him in liquid deliriums, prancing their satanic rites and jabbering in tongues the Bewildered Heathen/Businessman could barely comprehend. The Tender of the Floodgates inquired as the nature of the pleasure that the Heathen/Businessman was seeking upon that evening, to which the latter replied:
“I am in need of certain refreshments of the warming variety, the nectar of the Gods as some are given to calling it--this nectar being the finest of the scotch variety, a delicacy of these local barbarian lands, and one of its more redeeming qualities, amidst all of this uncivilized rabble.”
Rather flabbergasted, the Tender of the Floodgates supplied the pleasure in question in a glass chalice of diminutive stature, stamped upon the bottom with the fine heraldic crest of its maker, and muttered that “Mr. Jakes ‘as lost ‘is bloody marbles. Good God, I couldn’t make ‘eads or tales o’ that load o’ rubbish.”
Settling himself upon a narrow cot in the corner of the Barracks, the Verbal Soldier/Businessman proceeded to sniff and occasionally imbibe his daily ration while looking darkly at the members of his platoon. For a time the Verbal Soldier/Businessman embarked upon the task of drafting a detailed report of the day’s combat through the woodlands of his cerebellum, drawing up a complex network of figures that he sincerely hoped HQ would be able to decipher without an excess of difficulty. The going was slow at best, for his rations failed to satisfy the anxiety that he faced at the prospect of another excursion toward the main camp to resupply and rest as he had not been on the best terms with the brigadier general for the past several weeks. Adding to his difficulties was the inconvenience and incoherence of the scouting reports that he had received, which constituted the bulk of the day’s findings. Indeed, he himself found them devilishly hard to decipher, and converting them into a pleasing report by which they might be conveyed to the army at large was a task that he did not feel himself qualified for, and yet he persevered.
The Verbal Soldier/Businessman set aside his report and began to compose a short, entertaining ditty for his soldiers, rather bawdy and certainly nothing he would ever want his commanding officers to catch a glimpse of, but something that ought to raise morale and which may even be suitable for pushing him past the impasse that he seemed to have arrived at.
Half an hour later, as the main scouting parties were preparing to depart once more, a messenger of the female gender entered the barracks and went unnoticed by the Verbal Soldier/Businessman, who was occupied by the inquiry of an orderly as to whether he required further rations, to which the fellow in question replied in the affirmative.
Having failed entirely in his composition of a Virulent Spell, the Warlock/Businessman quaffed an excess of a bitter Potion which did little to repair his foul mood, though it did bring about a fit of coughing on his part that rather perturbed his Assistant/Overseer, who offered once again to bring further rounds of the Potion in question, which the Warlock/Businessman politely declined between heavy gasps. The Warlock/Businessman, upon regaining some modicum of his former composure, noticed the entrance of a slim Damsel (Potentially Though Not Certainly In Distress) and set about immediately toward the goal of corrupting her.
“Why, my fine, young salmon, would you care to sample the various baits of this fine establishment at my expense,” the Warlock/Businessman inquired and garnered by way of response a raised eyebrow.
“Um...What the hell?”
The Warlock/Businessman’s scrying spells indicated a level of disorientation that in turn propagated itself within his plots.
Executing a positional realignment, the Damsel sent the following message to the Warlock/Businessman’s Assistant/Overseer through traditional acoustic channels: “Is he...?”
“Oh, he’s, well, I don’t rightly know what’s up with ‘im tonight...He’s always a bit odd--fancies ‘imself a poet, ‘mong other things, though I couldn’t right give ‘im that distinction. Still, Mr. Jakes is a decent enough fellow. Certainly wouldn’t kill ya to pick up a few drinks on ‘is account...”
Deciphering the encrypted transmission, the Damsel settled herself onto a chair opposite the Warlock/Businessman and contemplated the Potion set before her by the Assistant/Overseer.
“You are a rather fine fur coat, if you don’t mind my saying so,” the Warlock/Businessman began before snagging upon the marshy bottom of the river.
“I’ll pretend that was a compliment.” The Damsel removed with surgical precision a minor tumor protruding from the cotton exterior coating her arm. “So...”
A disturbance of the normal downstream flow of the Thinkers’ oral waters occurred for some moments, whereupon the Warlock/Businessman launched a rocket armed with a nuclear payload with the intention of intercepting and destroying the aforementioned Disturbance before it incited a Calamitous Disaster.
He began in the following manner: “At the outset of my voyage through the arteries of this Human Warren, I encountered a rather peculiar specimen of--well, I don’t know well rightly what it may have been--”
“Whoa, buddy--cut the syllable count, maybe?”
The aforementioned disturbance was initiated once more, but in repetition, the Warlock/Businessman attempted an explosive intercept of the Asteroid/Brewing Calamity in question.
“A Horseman, all enwrapped in gilded armor and flapping, crimson banners, stood upon the peak of a great mountain and raised his lance once with a yell before plunging from the peak and sundering himself upon another below.” The Warlock/Businessman called a timeout to allow his players to recover before the next offensive flurry, only to be thrown suddenly into defense by way of a sudden turnover near the blue line:
“That’s interesting. Would you mind getting me another drink?”
The sudden parry and counter thrust performed by the Warlock/Businessman was to the effect of “Certainly”, which the internal computations of the Damsel found the integrative summation to be I might as well keep mooching off this guy, even if he is bat shit crazy.
“So anyway, you were saying--what, some guy on a horse fell off a building and landed on another one? That’s...a little odd. It wasn’t on the news or anything.”
“By ‘horseman’ I have crafted a carefully structured haiku by which I mean to laboriously haul across many miles the dream-prophecy of ‘Gallant figure, beaten down by higher powers wishing constantly for his demise and against which he cannot hope to attain by final victory, but by struggling onward in such a noble yet fruitless quest he attains a certain Immortality which none, not even the Great Destroyer of Nations and Mountains, can wrest from his grasp--”
“I don’t follow. At all.”
Having been stymied in his efforts of gallantry equal to his subject, the Painter/Businessman set down his brush and inspected the canvas upon which he had been working. The Painter/Businessman thereupon entered a mood of incredible foulness as he stood upon a promontory and observed a small vessel of enjoyment beyond the bounds of the Infernal Emotional and Social Contract slip quietly over the horizon.
“I really think I should be going...”
Throwing himself in one desperate, final effort upon the spearhead of the enemy advance, the Doomed Hero/Businessman murmured, “No, I must make a final try, I must make you see the emotional underpinnings of this collage--No, this poem--No, that’s not what I am intending to weave.”
“Look, would you cut the fucking poetics already--I mean God, you’re so strung up--”
“There was a horseman and he fell--”
“This is ridiculous; I’m out of here.” And the Damsel/Rocket shook loose its moorings and rose on a cushion of combusting hydrogen and oxygen toward the stars, sheets of ice cascading from its sides.
“--he fell and dashed himself upon a Spire of--of--of--”
Twinkling in the night sky, the Star/Damsel flashed for a single brilliant moment and then vanished into the blackness that overwhelmed the Heart of the Doomed Hero/Businessman.
And the Businessman read various newspaper clippings reporting a stunning defeat on the Emotional Front which drove him toward a familiar birdcage, as he often was in the evening.
And the Bartender watched him stumble out the door, fouled up by his usual weaknesses. Polishing the bar with a soft cloth, he caught the headlines of a few newspapers left by long-gone customers on chairs and table tops:
Historian Suicide! Read all about it inside, b13!
A stand--or leap--for history; Death follows!
Thomas Building proprietor to sue family of the deceased!
Advertising agency renting building Distressed by bad press!
“He just wanted the real story,” claims Grieving Widow!
The Bartender tossed his polishing cloth into a bin and threw the abandoned newspapers in the trash, pausing momentarily on a final headline:
Teen singer/idol Alicia Monsoon claims songs “Don’t need less story, more feeling”!
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Lost
I wrote this for English class and I actually ended up liking it a decent amount.
People always believe that
after a while
it's next to impossible
to get lost in a familiar place.
Even in the dark, they say,
the twists and turns of your house,
your home,
remain clear.
Even when you've gone for a while
it doesn't matter
because it has simply become
muscle memory.
So when Harry stands in his kitchen
unable to recall
the way back to his room
or even his front door
after 50 years
(has it been 50 years?)
in the same house
with the same fixtures and flatware
with the same woman
He deosn't call for help.
He stares at the floor
while swallows sing outside the kitchen window
and tries not to curse
every god his mind has held on to.
Because he is lost in his house.
Because he has lost his home.
People always believe that
after a while
it's next to impossible
to get lost in a familiar place.
Even in the dark, they say,
the twists and turns of your house,
your home,
remain clear.
Even when you've gone for a while
it doesn't matter
because it has simply become
muscle memory.
So when Harry stands in his kitchen
unable to recall
the way back to his room
or even his front door
after 50 years
(has it been 50 years?)
in the same house
with the same fixtures and flatware
with the same woman
He deosn't call for help.
He stares at the floor
while swallows sing outside the kitchen window
and tries not to curse
every god his mind has held on to.
Because he is lost in his house.
Because he has lost his home.
Monday, January 19, 2009
In This Photograph
It sounds better when I read it out loud, I think, but I figured I would post it here anyway since I like it a lot. I like to think of it as a sequel to the other photograph poem I wrote at camp even though they're based on two totally different photographs--for instance, one of the photos is made up and one of them actually exists. Anyway, here goes:
In This Photograph
These photos that I hold
are not this time yellow
or greyed or blued
or torn around the edges
or folded hundreds of times down the middle.
They are pink and new just printed
now but they are full of moments
and memories that couldn’t
ever grow old.
They are full of us
over and over and over again
us
together apart
they are still our moments
mementos of our time together.
My favorite one is beautiful
it too is pink even though it
shouldn’t be.
See there I stand looking down
at my papers concentrating
and there you are down at the bottom
looking up at me
listening to me read
and explain my story
and you look as though you are
the only one there
listening.
The chalkboard behind me is empty
and now on it, I write my thoughts
and my fears and my desires
and at that platform I stood
and I recited them all to you
through the story of another
and we are not so different.
We may not be so pretty or brilliant
but together we stand
united by our separation
in this photograph
a memory of what I never knew but miss anyway.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Needs a title...
I wrote this around October (?) but found it today and decided to publish... it's a little prosey and about an uncomfortable encounter.
In the Ks
my breath stopped
and I knew I was so near there's a copy I've seen it.
Fingertips grip the shelf,
nails nervously flick
dust
off paperbacks.
I am too distracted to sneeze.
The novel slides out...
This is not my Unbearable Lightness, it couldn't be here,
but the words are the same.
Lonely words.
It isn't mine but it's part of me.
Shakily restored,
I trust the metal ladder and indulge in one
just one
chapter, where I left off.
It feels fulfilling but-
Now my volume is crammed back on the shelf with the Ks.
I say something irrelevantly to Dad and
dollars are traded for poetry and
I escape to hot Jackson Street,
thoroughly confused.
In the Ks
my breath stopped
and I knew I was so near there's a copy I've seen it.
Fingertips grip the shelf,
nails nervously flick
dust
off paperbacks.
I am too distracted to sneeze.
The novel slides out...
This is not my Unbearable Lightness, it couldn't be here,
but the words are the same.
Lonely words.
It isn't mine but it's part of me.
Shakily restored,
I trust the metal ladder and indulge in one
just one
chapter, where I left off.
It feels fulfilling but-
Now my volume is crammed back on the shelf with the Ks.
I say something irrelevantly to Dad and
dollars are traded for poetry and
I escape to hot Jackson Street,
thoroughly confused.
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