Thursday, October 30, 2008
Timbers Shivered
Shivered timber in shale shallows at Shiloh. Surrendering sailors gape guppy-mouthed and lubber like puppies a’lee of Captain Shill, who swills Merlot and summons sacred sea soldiers of old, while scolding on shoulder, parrot Merlin for mimicing Shylock’s fleece codpiece spiel in walkie-talkie cockney jabberwocky even as fleet scuttles.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Emails accidentally received (intended for someone’s name close to mine):
1. updates on live piano music for the wedding
2. follow up to new resident orientation
3. follow up on music for the wedding, looking for a response
4. plane tickets
5. a video about yom kippur
6. advertisements for a radiology job
7. a message from someone who wants to talk to this other Shannon Smith, who’d “misplaced” her email address
8. more radiologist job advertisements
9. a “frightening” Howard Sten clip about how Obama might win the election
10. offer to join classmates.com
11. online photo albums of someone’s new child
12. pictures of someone’s new nephew, someone who doesn’t think the child is cute enough
2. follow up to new resident orientation
3. follow up on music for the wedding, looking for a response
4. plane tickets
5. a video about yom kippur
6. advertisements for a radiology job
7. a message from someone who wants to talk to this other Shannon Smith, who’d “misplaced” her email address
8. more radiologist job advertisements
9. a “frightening” Howard Sten clip about how Obama might win the election
10. offer to join classmates.com
11. online photo albums of someone’s new child
12. pictures of someone’s new nephew, someone who doesn’t think the child is cute enough
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Monopoly
Just out of the fifth grade, she played Monopoly with her parents- one of the few times they were willing to play this game, her favorite. "There's no guarantee that Monopoly will ever end," her mother whined.
But when it did end, and our girl won, Mother bent down next to her at the dining room table, running a hand up her shin. "You've been shaving your legs, haven't you?"
Mother didn't mean to be cruel, but the girl was humiliated, as if she'd been caught rubbing herself against the corner of her bed. She hid under her bed for the rest of the day, listening to popular radio, loud, songs repeating ever couple of hours.
Her father brought her peanut butter crackers. He said, "It's really no big deal."
But when it did end, and our girl won, Mother bent down next to her at the dining room table, running a hand up her shin. "You've been shaving your legs, haven't you?"
Mother didn't mean to be cruel, but the girl was humiliated, as if she'd been caught rubbing herself against the corner of her bed. She hid under her bed for the rest of the day, listening to popular radio, loud, songs repeating ever couple of hours.
Her father brought her peanut butter crackers. He said, "It's really no big deal."
Monday, October 27, 2008
Snacktime II
Candy again, yum
Licorice pastels, delight
Distraction habit
Before, ice cream tale
Now, just thinking about food
Too lazy to cook
Sugar high, I type
Crunching crunching licorice
Coated in sugar
Licorice pastels
Easter coloring, surprise
It’s not Halloween
In candy land, home
Beans and Barley provides
On noes! Tummy ache!
Licorice pastels, delight
Distraction habit
Before, ice cream tale
Now, just thinking about food
Too lazy to cook
Sugar high, I type
Crunching crunching licorice
Coated in sugar
Licorice pastels
Easter coloring, surprise
It’s not Halloween
In candy land, home
Beans and Barley provides
On noes! Tummy ache!
Leo's Manifesto Part II (in front of the coffee machine at the White Hen Pantry at Roosevelt Road and Halsted Avenue)
Yeah, in this line of work, you see the ugly things people do.
Leo’s seen people say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, then he hadda bust them for stuffing their pockets. Leo says he’s had people come in with children and leave them in the store. And hookers? Forget it. Too many to count in that neighborhood. But they need money, so Leo says, who is he to judge? Then the time a man comes in with a girl. She looked just like him, so at first Leo didn’t think anything of it. She just kept looking at him while her father paid for their stuff—cough syrup, Vivarin, cigarette papers, potato chips, pops, and candy. The girl kept looking at Leo. She couldn’t have been more than eight or so. To this day, Leo kicks himself for being so slow. Leo says, guess what they say about Polocks is true. Leo says that’s a joke. (Ha, ha, ha.) But he hates the fact that he didn’t get it until they were leaving the store and the little girl starts crying. Silently, but she was crying. Then Leo thought about the flyers in the restroom. He went back to look—it was her and her father. Leo remembers the name—Oscar Rubio. The girl was Lisa Andrade. Leo called the cops, but it was too late. Leo says he remembers their names because he looked at the poster for weeks after. They were gone when he went back out to the front. Leo says he never heard anything about whether they found them. It bothered him for a long time after. Leo says he knows what it’s like as a man to want to see your kid, but Christ, the girl was crying. Didn’t that creep see that?
Leo’s seen people say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, then he hadda bust them for stuffing their pockets. Leo says he’s had people come in with children and leave them in the store. And hookers? Forget it. Too many to count in that neighborhood. But they need money, so Leo says, who is he to judge? Then the time a man comes in with a girl. She looked just like him, so at first Leo didn’t think anything of it. She just kept looking at him while her father paid for their stuff—cough syrup, Vivarin, cigarette papers, potato chips, pops, and candy. The girl kept looking at Leo. She couldn’t have been more than eight or so. To this day, Leo kicks himself for being so slow. Leo says, guess what they say about Polocks is true. Leo says that’s a joke. (Ha, ha, ha.) But he hates the fact that he didn’t get it until they were leaving the store and the little girl starts crying. Silently, but she was crying. Then Leo thought about the flyers in the restroom. He went back to look—it was her and her father. Leo remembers the name—Oscar Rubio. The girl was Lisa Andrade. Leo called the cops, but it was too late. Leo says he remembers their names because he looked at the poster for weeks after. They were gone when he went back out to the front. Leo says he never heard anything about whether they found them. It bothered him for a long time after. Leo says he knows what it’s like as a man to want to see your kid, but Christ, the girl was crying. Didn’t that creep see that?
Leo Takes a Break at the White Hen Pantry at Roosevelt Road and Halsted Avenue
Leo stands behind the counter, loading hot dogs onto the revolving roaster. He made fifty-four
this past January. He’s a proud South Side Chicago Polock. Not that this has anything to
do with what he’s about to tell you. He just likes saying it because it’s true. He works
at the White Hen Pantry at the corner of Roosevelt Road and Halsted Avenue. Roosevelt Road
connects Chicago’s West side to the Loop and the Near South Side. Halsted Avenue brings the
North Side to the South Side and the southern suburbs. Leo has been working here for eight years, and he’s seen some real wackos and freaks. Not just homeless people, like a lot of people assume, but guys with money, family guys. Even cops—real fruitcakes. Sometimes Leo thinks there are more fruitcakes that people who are sane. He’s been held up more times that he can keep track, once by a guy he knew used to be a fireman. Some junkie is always trying to steal stuff. But that’s normal.
There was a couple comes in and bought some condoms. Leo says he should have known something was up ‘cause the lady picked them out. They paid, and Leo went back to the inventory he was recording. He says he lost track of where they went. A homeless guy who Leo lets wash up in the bathroom sometimes comes up to him and says the door is blocked by something. Not locked because the lock is broken. He couldn’t get inside because something was blocking it. Some boxes or something. And there’s laughing coming out of there. Well, turns out, the couple’s in the restroom. The couple with the condoms are in there, getting their rocks off, and the broad turns out to be a guy. Leo has to admit he punched the guy dressed up as a broad first.
this past January. He’s a proud South Side Chicago Polock. Not that this has anything to
do with what he’s about to tell you. He just likes saying it because it’s true. He works
at the White Hen Pantry at the corner of Roosevelt Road and Halsted Avenue. Roosevelt Road
connects Chicago’s West side to the Loop and the Near South Side. Halsted Avenue brings the
North Side to the South Side and the southern suburbs. Leo has been working here for eight years, and he’s seen some real wackos and freaks. Not just homeless people, like a lot of people assume, but guys with money, family guys. Even cops—real fruitcakes. Sometimes Leo thinks there are more fruitcakes that people who are sane. He’s been held up more times that he can keep track, once by a guy he knew used to be a fireman. Some junkie is always trying to steal stuff. But that’s normal.
There was a couple comes in and bought some condoms. Leo says he should have known something was up ‘cause the lady picked them out. They paid, and Leo went back to the inventory he was recording. He says he lost track of where they went. A homeless guy who Leo lets wash up in the bathroom sometimes comes up to him and says the door is blocked by something. Not locked because the lock is broken. He couldn’t get inside because something was blocking it. Some boxes or something. And there’s laughing coming out of there. Well, turns out, the couple’s in the restroom. The couple with the condoms are in there, getting their rocks off, and the broad turns out to be a guy. Leo has to admit he punched the guy dressed up as a broad first.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
when he feels joy
It is exactly that, but guessing.
As he can’t figure, she wouldn’t
understand. As the whiteness
stultifies, she is restored, he stares
and wishes. How he loves to watch
and knows not how. As they say,
he does not notice.
As he can’t figure, she wouldn’t
understand. As the whiteness
stultifies, she is restored, he stares
and wishes. How he loves to watch
and knows not how. As they say,
he does not notice.
what he remembered
That he drove, as they became part.
That she gestured once she had taken
to paper. She once called
for help as he watched.
That his right ear rings, her high-
pitched apologies, her crimson
marks and razor wire. He remembered
the table in his house, what
she had taken.
That she gestured once she had taken
to paper. She once called
for help as he watched.
That his right ear rings, her high-
pitched apologies, her crimson
marks and razor wire. He remembered
the table in his house, what
she had taken.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Her Early Work
Segment of a transcript from an unfinished documentary film about the life and work of Maia Marcelo, founder of the School for Subliminal Journalism, Present, Future and Past as interviewed by Maia Marcelo in the Future and the Past Present.
“You should never doubt what no one is sure about”
--Willy Wonka
INT.- MILWAUKEE ART MUSEUM- DAY
Old Maia looks through tall, dramatic windows overlooking Lake Michigan.
OLD MAIA (VO)
(Sighs. Looks at the water)
Lake Michigan goes from remote to populas, clean to dirty.
It is deep, but not frighteningly so. 900 feet at its deepest I believe.
I think I came here, to Milwaukee, deliberately to set my self apart from that other shore, the soft one north in Michigan, and start to explore the watery space between what I was capable of and what I dreamed of. The sea between the real and the imagined. I would become a diver in that sea.
EXT.- MILWAUKEE ART MUSEUM MUSEUM- DAY
Outside the very same windows, young Maia walks by, hands in coat, not looking at the lake. She is carrying a scuba tank with her. She has a scuba mask on her head.
INT.- KLOTSCHE CENTER POOL- DAY
Young Maia aims the video camera at herself. She is in complete scuba gear.
she readjusts her mask then falls backwards in to the pool. She watches from underwater as a strong swimmer men and women swim back and forth above her.
YOUNG MAIA (VO)
You see that woman? that lovely, gazelle like woman moving above me? The one that looks lovely and feminine and graceful even in the warped, bloating chlorine light.. Thats all anyone would ever have to be to be happy. If you were her, you wouldn't need to be anything else. You wouldn't need to talk. You wouldn't have to think really. People would open doors for you. You could just walk quietly through the world as it opened up for you. If you could move like that, being so beautiful and thin and lovely, thats all you would need to do, ever. And you would be loved.
Will I ever feel like a beautiful woman? Will I ever walk easily through the world, allowing doors to be opened for me?
EXT. Landscape Shots of Lake Michigan
YOUNG MAIA (VO)
Meanwhile I collect stories. Stories about impossible love and inventions that were destroyed before they could be invented because if they came into being the world as we know it would die of joy. Its a collection that does not need a physical archive. Does not need any sort of a case. Its a collection of tales of suffering, mostly. You know the Buddha, its said, when he died, took on as much suffering as he possibly could, because he knew he could take it. He wished all the darkness and pain of the world on to himself, sucked it out of the air and put it all on him. And when one of his disciples was angry with him for leaving the world, thought that he was getting out easy by abandoning him, the buddha gave him all of the pain in just one of his fingertips, and just that fraction of pain was more than the disciple could stand. It knocked him over and had him crying out for the pain to stop.
Well, this is kind of the opposite of that. This is a collection of unborn joys that being stunted have become tumorous knots in the conscious of mankind. Or of me. An ultimate sort of selfishness. We are so afraid of our own pleasure that we thwart it, put deliberate kinks in it, drive ourselves crazy with rules against our selves. Its what we keep ourselves from knowing.
INT- YOUNG MAIAS APARTMENT- DAY
Maia's workspace. There are old postcards with a nautical theme tacked up on the wall. There is a sculpture of a mermaid, a boat wheel on the wall, then there is a sculpture with a woman's mouth taped over. In a year book there is a photograph of young maia much like the sculpture- duct tape over her mouth in an otherwise regular year book photo.
YOUNG MAIA (VO)
The more we trust the body, the more we know. This trust results in an openness
that allows for us to have thoughts that are sudden and ecstatic, like a child's.
My mother wanted me to trust my gut.
I did until puberty, and then from puberty to adulthood fear seemed to rule that region of my body, and I so I started to use my head instead. As an adult, and when I arrived here, on the wrong side of the lake, I used the mental muscles I had developed to find my way back to my gut. Have you ever seen Picasso's last self portrait? Its fantastically disturbing. It has the black hole eyes of a drawing made by an upset child. Picasso said more than once that his goal was to draw like a child again. I think he reached that goal in the horrible, ecstatic weeks before his own death.
OLD MAIA (VO)
(Sighs) Lets get a cup of tea, shall we? Coffee gives me gas.
Old Maia wobbles into the museum cafe at the Milwaukee Art Museum
OLD MAIA (sipping tea)
I was right in some ways. I'm still not so interested in work thats striving for some kind of perfect form. I am far more interested in work that, in its form, is evidence of a life well lived. Ecstatically lived. And I was just living through the various kinds of work I did.
Sometimes striving for form, most of the time striving for love. Which, aside from the milky cliffs and baths of the Hieropalis in Turkey, is truly one of the only things worth living for. But love comes in many forms. Then it was a more selfish love I was looking for. I was, and am, quite self centered. But also very full of love for others. Less concerned with being loved now. Now I know the true pleasure of love is in the loving.
DON'T LET YOUR LACK OF CONFIDENCE HANG AROUND YOUR DAUGHTER'S NECK LIKE A STONE
This is what a psychic said to me in a run down store front on Congress Avenue in Portland, Maine when I was 26 years old. Inside the store front he had a fortune tellers tent set up and that is where I sat across from him, sobbing. I had come there to ask him about love and work and why the two didn't seem to be panning out for me. I thought I wanted the love of one man more than anything.
I told him about the man I'd wanted for a long time. He said I could have him if I really wanted him. He waved that subject away. Said he saw other opportunities coming for me. Besides, he asked, what would you do with him if you had him? Nevermind, I know what you'd do with him.
Listen, if you want to be have a career, you have to take yourself more seriously.
And so thats when I started really working.
“You should never doubt what no one is sure about”
--Willy Wonka
INT.- MILWAUKEE ART MUSEUM- DAY
Old Maia looks through tall, dramatic windows overlooking Lake Michigan.
OLD MAIA (VO)
(Sighs. Looks at the water)
Lake Michigan goes from remote to populas, clean to dirty.
It is deep, but not frighteningly so. 900 feet at its deepest I believe.
I think I came here, to Milwaukee, deliberately to set my self apart from that other shore, the soft one north in Michigan, and start to explore the watery space between what I was capable of and what I dreamed of. The sea between the real and the imagined. I would become a diver in that sea.
EXT.- MILWAUKEE ART MUSEUM MUSEUM- DAY
Outside the very same windows, young Maia walks by, hands in coat, not looking at the lake. She is carrying a scuba tank with her. She has a scuba mask on her head.
INT.- KLOTSCHE CENTER POOL- DAY
Young Maia aims the video camera at herself. She is in complete scuba gear.
she readjusts her mask then falls backwards in to the pool. She watches from underwater as a strong swimmer men and women swim back and forth above her.
YOUNG MAIA (VO)
You see that woman? that lovely, gazelle like woman moving above me? The one that looks lovely and feminine and graceful even in the warped, bloating chlorine light.. Thats all anyone would ever have to be to be happy. If you were her, you wouldn't need to be anything else. You wouldn't need to talk. You wouldn't have to think really. People would open doors for you. You could just walk quietly through the world as it opened up for you. If you could move like that, being so beautiful and thin and lovely, thats all you would need to do, ever. And you would be loved.
Will I ever feel like a beautiful woman? Will I ever walk easily through the world, allowing doors to be opened for me?
EXT. Landscape Shots of Lake Michigan
YOUNG MAIA (VO)
Meanwhile I collect stories. Stories about impossible love and inventions that were destroyed before they could be invented because if they came into being the world as we know it would die of joy. Its a collection that does not need a physical archive. Does not need any sort of a case. Its a collection of tales of suffering, mostly. You know the Buddha, its said, when he died, took on as much suffering as he possibly could, because he knew he could take it. He wished all the darkness and pain of the world on to himself, sucked it out of the air and put it all on him. And when one of his disciples was angry with him for leaving the world, thought that he was getting out easy by abandoning him, the buddha gave him all of the pain in just one of his fingertips, and just that fraction of pain was more than the disciple could stand. It knocked him over and had him crying out for the pain to stop.
Well, this is kind of the opposite of that. This is a collection of unborn joys that being stunted have become tumorous knots in the conscious of mankind. Or of me. An ultimate sort of selfishness. We are so afraid of our own pleasure that we thwart it, put deliberate kinks in it, drive ourselves crazy with rules against our selves. Its what we keep ourselves from knowing.
INT- YOUNG MAIAS APARTMENT- DAY
Maia's workspace. There are old postcards with a nautical theme tacked up on the wall. There is a sculpture of a mermaid, a boat wheel on the wall, then there is a sculpture with a woman's mouth taped over. In a year book there is a photograph of young maia much like the sculpture- duct tape over her mouth in an otherwise regular year book photo.
YOUNG MAIA (VO)
The more we trust the body, the more we know. This trust results in an openness
that allows for us to have thoughts that are sudden and ecstatic, like a child's.
My mother wanted me to trust my gut.
I did until puberty, and then from puberty to adulthood fear seemed to rule that region of my body, and I so I started to use my head instead. As an adult, and when I arrived here, on the wrong side of the lake, I used the mental muscles I had developed to find my way back to my gut. Have you ever seen Picasso's last self portrait? Its fantastically disturbing. It has the black hole eyes of a drawing made by an upset child. Picasso said more than once that his goal was to draw like a child again. I think he reached that goal in the horrible, ecstatic weeks before his own death.
OLD MAIA (VO)
(Sighs) Lets get a cup of tea, shall we? Coffee gives me gas.
Old Maia wobbles into the museum cafe at the Milwaukee Art Museum
OLD MAIA (sipping tea)
I was right in some ways. I'm still not so interested in work thats striving for some kind of perfect form. I am far more interested in work that, in its form, is evidence of a life well lived. Ecstatically lived. And I was just living through the various kinds of work I did.
Sometimes striving for form, most of the time striving for love. Which, aside from the milky cliffs and baths of the Hieropalis in Turkey, is truly one of the only things worth living for. But love comes in many forms. Then it was a more selfish love I was looking for. I was, and am, quite self centered. But also very full of love for others. Less concerned with being loved now. Now I know the true pleasure of love is in the loving.
DON'T LET YOUR LACK OF CONFIDENCE HANG AROUND YOUR DAUGHTER'S NECK LIKE A STONE
This is what a psychic said to me in a run down store front on Congress Avenue in Portland, Maine when I was 26 years old. Inside the store front he had a fortune tellers tent set up and that is where I sat across from him, sobbing. I had come there to ask him about love and work and why the two didn't seem to be panning out for me. I thought I wanted the love of one man more than anything.
I told him about the man I'd wanted for a long time. He said I could have him if I really wanted him. He waved that subject away. Said he saw other opportunities coming for me. Besides, he asked, what would you do with him if you had him? Nevermind, I know what you'd do with him.
Listen, if you want to be have a career, you have to take yourself more seriously.
And so thats when I started really working.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
In Front of the News Rack in the White Hen Pantry at Roosevelt Road and Halsted Avenue
I cry when I go to the bathroom
I can’t stand looking at my wife naked
I hate watching people eat cream cheese on a bagel
I don’t give a damn about going green
I wish I could sleep all day
I have never donated to the Disabled Veterans Association
I do not see why anybody would want to live in Minnesota
I hate the new non-smoking laws in Chicago
I must admit that kid was right; my daughter does have a face like a bat
I write checks each week to my church
I have unpaid parking tickets
I do not plan to pay them
I do not have to pay them
The car I drive everyday is registered to my father-in-law
I don’t think any amount of money sent to Africa is going to change a damn thing
I’ll have a pack of Winston Lights
I can’t stand looking at my wife naked
I hate watching people eat cream cheese on a bagel
I don’t give a damn about going green
I wish I could sleep all day
I have never donated to the Disabled Veterans Association
I do not see why anybody would want to live in Minnesota
I hate the new non-smoking laws in Chicago
I must admit that kid was right; my daughter does have a face like a bat
I write checks each week to my church
I have unpaid parking tickets
I do not plan to pay them
I do not have to pay them
The car I drive everyday is registered to my father-in-law
I don’t think any amount of money sent to Africa is going to change a damn thing
I’ll have a pack of Winston Lights
Monday, October 20, 2008
Pink tights
He leaned forward, his hips against the counter, considering what he saw. The tangle of tight blonde curls crowned with a delicate, sparkly, pink tiara. Glittery eyelids and cheeks and lips, all in various shades of pink. The wand, wound up in ribbon, topped by a pink plastic star. Wings, sheer with clear crystals sewn on for added sparkle. And if he looked down, hips covered by the layers of a tutu, also pink. Tights even. Pink ones, of course. All the accouterments for the exact right costume. If he were looking at a girl, 5’3” maybe around fourteen years old. Instead, unfortunately, he was looking in the mirror.
He didn’t want to leave the bathroom. It has seemed like a good idea at the time, when his girlfriend had suggested it as a joke, even when she had brought home all the pieces of the costume, one at a time. Apparently it was hard for her to find things like pink tights and wings designed for a guy who stood 6’4”. Every time she came home successful, she’d been so excited, he hadn’t ever had the guts to chicken out. To tell her that he wasn’t the right kind of guy to wear this get-up and pull it off with confidence. He was too self-conscious to be able to enjoy this kind of humiliation.
But then he thought of how much he loved to watch her face when she laughed. And he did look pretty ridiculous. Intent on making the best of it, he took a deep breath, straightened his tutu and opened the bathroom door. She was in the living room with several of their friends.
“Oh my god,” one of her girlfriends muttered.
His friends didn’t even try to contain their laughter. “Oh, man, that is tragic! You’re pink! Like the damn Easter bunny!”
“I think it’s a funny costume,” one of her other friends said, trying to stick up for him.
His girlfriend walked over and stood in front of him just as he was about to duck out of the room, change into his stand-by costume from years passed: a Batman tee shirt and a cape the consisted of a black bed sheet and a safety pin. She reached around him and straightened his wings. Then she smiled at him. And he knew he wouldn’t change. Humiliation it would be.
“It’s tragicomic. Get over it,” he said to the whole group. “Let’s go.”
She squeezed his hand, and he smiled down at her. He ushered everyone out the door and pulled his trench-style raincoat over his costume. His wings might get crushed, but he wasn’t about to walk down the street without it.
“Damn Tooth Fairy,” he muttered as he pulled the door shut behind him.
He didn’t want to leave the bathroom. It has seemed like a good idea at the time, when his girlfriend had suggested it as a joke, even when she had brought home all the pieces of the costume, one at a time. Apparently it was hard for her to find things like pink tights and wings designed for a guy who stood 6’4”. Every time she came home successful, she’d been so excited, he hadn’t ever had the guts to chicken out. To tell her that he wasn’t the right kind of guy to wear this get-up and pull it off with confidence. He was too self-conscious to be able to enjoy this kind of humiliation.
But then he thought of how much he loved to watch her face when she laughed. And he did look pretty ridiculous. Intent on making the best of it, he took a deep breath, straightened his tutu and opened the bathroom door. She was in the living room with several of their friends.
“Oh my god,” one of her girlfriends muttered.
His friends didn’t even try to contain their laughter. “Oh, man, that is tragic! You’re pink! Like the damn Easter bunny!”
“I think it’s a funny costume,” one of her other friends said, trying to stick up for him.
His girlfriend walked over and stood in front of him just as he was about to duck out of the room, change into his stand-by costume from years passed: a Batman tee shirt and a cape the consisted of a black bed sheet and a safety pin. She reached around him and straightened his wings. Then she smiled at him. And he knew he wouldn’t change. Humiliation it would be.
“It’s tragicomic. Get over it,” he said to the whole group. “Let’s go.”
She squeezed his hand, and he smiled down at her. He ushered everyone out the door and pulled his trench-style raincoat over his costume. His wings might get crushed, but he wasn’t about to walk down the street without it.
“Damn Tooth Fairy,” he muttered as he pulled the door shut behind him.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
The utility of theories
String Theory
You say: a universe is big, maybe infinite
Everything gravitational, electromagnetic, weak and strong
Has portals, hidden matter and energy
All string theories predict the existence of degrees of freedom
All kinds of heavenly apparitions and sensations
Quarks, leptons: a mathematically complete system
It had a marvelous birth
An action principle
Despite the labor pains, still it has good genes
The tension of a quantum string is closely related to its size.
The clarity of your voice in memory scares me
Fluctuations of a horizon describe everything that can fall through
A part of me has been holding its breath
Strings can scatter consistently, or add boundary conditions
Tell me something easy
One or more of the dimensions are curled up .
I don’t want you to misunderstand
Strings can only interact by splitting and combining in a smooth way
Could you be Miss Wonderly?
Because the two ends of an open string can always meet and connect,
Maybe now you see the utility of a parallel universe
forming a closed string, there are no string theories without closed strings
Your desire for the Houdini reverse escape will be temporarily deferred
You say: a universe is big, maybe infinite
Everything gravitational, electromagnetic, weak and strong
Has portals, hidden matter and energy
All string theories predict the existence of degrees of freedom
All kinds of heavenly apparitions and sensations
Quarks, leptons: a mathematically complete system
It had a marvelous birth
An action principle
Despite the labor pains, still it has good genes
The tension of a quantum string is closely related to its size.
The clarity of your voice in memory scares me
Fluctuations of a horizon describe everything that can fall through
A part of me has been holding its breath
Strings can scatter consistently, or add boundary conditions
Tell me something easy
One or more of the dimensions are curled up .
I don’t want you to misunderstand
Strings can only interact by splitting and combining in a smooth way
Could you be Miss Wonderly?
Because the two ends of an open string can always meet and connect,
Maybe now you see the utility of a parallel universe
forming a closed string, there are no string theories without closed strings
Your desire for the Houdini reverse escape will be temporarily deferred
Ringing as it curls up and dies
He’s waiting for the bus without his shoes on, almost walked out of the door forgetting them altogether as he tried to untangle his long cord of headphones while they blasted. His right ear rings, high-pitched, as the little cells curl up and die within his cochlea, but he doesn’t notice. The bass in his ears is far too strong and the pebble is even stronger as it cuts into his foot, making him so irritated as he tries to pick it out of the hard padding. He is hustling when he sees the bus turn the corner but he can’t get the shoes on in time.
The neighbor’s dog is first in line at the bus stop; he wants to get on the bus to go to the library to look up something on the computer, something on Wikipedia about the Kent State Massacre to see what everyone else has to say about it, to see if they included a note about the CSNY song “Ohio” which he’s been blasting on his stereo. An old, scratched record and he thinks about Neil Young every time, looking at the magazine with the girl crying over the dead curled up on the ground and writing that wonderful song saying “fuck you!” to the powers that be, wielding guns wherever whenever. The dog uses very strong language too, seeing as how the cops love to harass him when he’s just out and about, listening to his music and he isn’t bothering anyone. But the bastards can’t leave him alone; this time, it’s the kid who always wears his pants low, boxers hanging on for dear life shooing him from the doors. Now he can’t even get on the goddamn bus to go to the library and learn. He has his fare ready and everything, all change that he scrapes up off the street when he’s looking at the sidewalk. Now he must watch while his neighbor gets on the bus.
His pants are sagging as he tries to grab his fare and juggle his shoes, shuffling down the aisle barefoot. The bus is lurching along but has to wait at the curb for a moment until the high-pitched whistling has passed. It’s not in his ear anymore-- it’s zipping by on the street. The orange of an ambulance makes him cross himself, kiss his hand, say a little prayer because certainly, someone is about to curl up and die.
The neighbor’s dog is first in line at the bus stop; he wants to get on the bus to go to the library to look up something on the computer, something on Wikipedia about the Kent State Massacre to see what everyone else has to say about it, to see if they included a note about the CSNY song “Ohio” which he’s been blasting on his stereo. An old, scratched record and he thinks about Neil Young every time, looking at the magazine with the girl crying over the dead curled up on the ground and writing that wonderful song saying “fuck you!” to the powers that be, wielding guns wherever whenever. The dog uses very strong language too, seeing as how the cops love to harass him when he’s just out and about, listening to his music and he isn’t bothering anyone. But the bastards can’t leave him alone; this time, it’s the kid who always wears his pants low, boxers hanging on for dear life shooing him from the doors. Now he can’t even get on the goddamn bus to go to the library and learn. He has his fare ready and everything, all change that he scrapes up off the street when he’s looking at the sidewalk. Now he must watch while his neighbor gets on the bus.
His pants are sagging as he tries to grab his fare and juggle his shoes, shuffling down the aisle barefoot. The bus is lurching along but has to wait at the curb for a moment until the high-pitched whistling has passed. It’s not in his ear anymore-- it’s zipping by on the street. The orange of an ambulance makes him cross himself, kiss his hand, say a little prayer because certainly, someone is about to curl up and die.
What We Do After Falling Down the Stairs
When there is blood, who can be sure if they should call for help. Everyone stares, no one is really alarmed, there is no rush. The blood runs down her face, she runs away from a man in green, yet everything slows when he finds her on the corner, as if she is giving up the chase. He guides her by the neck back to wherever they come from, subduing her first behind the furniture store. Everyone sees what he is doing, everyone knows that is blood streaming down her mouth, but all she can think of is the fall down the stairs. That’s all anyone ever thinks about, except no one ever thinks about the trip or the doorknob in the way, and no one looks towards the crowd who is strangely confused, drawn into figuring out who tripped whom.
The police on motorcycle arrives, pulling over a red car but it isn’t the man, it isn’t the woman, there is no blood, so he sets off again around the block. No lights blaring this time; he doesn’t know where to go or what to do. He could stay with the rest of the crowd and wander aimlessly, not sure what is happening, where we are going, or what’s to become of them. We’ll keep on the corner, turning as an ambulance chugs by. In the back, lying down with plenty of tissue and the man in green with hands around her neck, perhaps she will tell the men--she will tell them all--they are mistaken. They can turn this around right now because she has only fallen down the stairs.
The police on motorcycle arrives, pulling over a red car but it isn’t the man, it isn’t the woman, there is no blood, so he sets off again around the block. No lights blaring this time; he doesn’t know where to go or what to do. He could stay with the rest of the crowd and wander aimlessly, not sure what is happening, where we are going, or what’s to become of them. We’ll keep on the corner, turning as an ambulance chugs by. In the back, lying down with plenty of tissue and the man in green with hands around her neck, perhaps she will tell the men--she will tell them all--they are mistaken. They can turn this around right now because she has only fallen down the stairs.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Johan Vaaler
Staples always felt permanent to him, despite the fact that he had accumulated three staple-removers in his five years at the desk he occupied from eight a.m. to six p.m. each week day. Maybe it was the slap of the stapler. The noise was violence, the clacking of a future bound up with other futures not necessarily in the order he’d like them to be in. The order was required.
Beyond this, there was the sinister bending in of sharp ends. He’d bled at their prick more than once; enough that he wore gloves if he needed to do any considerable work with the jagged metal fasteners. It just seemed sensible.
Hence the appeal of the paper clip.
Beyond this, there was the sinister bending in of sharp ends. He’d bled at their prick more than once; enough that he wore gloves if he needed to do any considerable work with the jagged metal fasteners. It just seemed sensible.
Hence the appeal of the paper clip.
Contact Information
One of the first things to go was lunch time IM-ing. For the first three months, they’d aligned their lunchtimes in order to have online conversations that ranged from evening plans to assessments of their respective supervisors to which member of the New Kids was the most underappreciated. It was her idea, the conversations. He’d gone along and been surprised by how happy they made him.
After awhile, the messaging slowed down, becoming an every other day thing, if that. He was disappointed, but couldn’t bring himself to tell her. Instead, he made subtle hints at home that he’d like to do it more often. Maybe he’d been too subtle.
When she messaged him a week after their first dating anniversary and said she couldn’t do it anymore, he immediately shot back a “WHY???”
“I just can’t.”
“SOMETHING I DID?”
“More like something you’ll never do.”
“ARE WE DONE?”
No answer.
After awhile, the messaging slowed down, becoming an every other day thing, if that. He was disappointed, but couldn’t bring himself to tell her. Instead, he made subtle hints at home that he’d like to do it more often. Maybe he’d been too subtle.
When she messaged him a week after their first dating anniversary and said she couldn’t do it anymore, he immediately shot back a “WHY???”
“I just can’t.”
“SOMETHING I DID?”
“More like something you’ll never do.”
“ARE WE DONE?”
No answer.
3M
Once, she’d taken a ream of printer-grade paper off the table in his house, leaving a note that she’d buy him more that night. When she got home, new package in hand, he lost it. Told her she’d stolen from him. Said he had to explain why his girlfriend had felt “familiar” enough to take company property without asking. Had to meet with his supervisor over the whole thing.
When she joked that he should maybe start looking for a job that didn’t take itself so seriously, he yanked the paper from her hand, shoved her back two steps, and slammed the door in her face.
She stood on the step for a full thirty seconds, balling and unballing her fists, tears burning tracks through her makeup.
When she joked that he should maybe start looking for a job that didn’t take itself so seriously, he yanked the paper from her hand, shoved her back two steps, and slammed the door in her face.
She stood on the step for a full thirty seconds, balling and unballing her fists, tears burning tracks through her makeup.
Peacock Colorburst
If there was one thing they always agreed on, it was the need for more colored paper in the world. Whiteness stultified. Black letters droned. But green ink on pink paper arrested him as much as it did her. Font choice, of course, brought contention. But the use of color was never contentious.
For their David Hasselhoff’s birthday party, it had been his idea to take some black construction paper and use pieces of red to replicate the lights of his Knight Rider car. Inspired, she pulled some more red paper and yellow accents from the plastic-wrap for an alternate homage to Baywatch. Silhouetted busts of Pamela Anderson seemed appropriate and they laughed the whole time they made them.
If only we could build the rest of our lives on such paper, he thought.
If only he made the attempt more often, she thought.
For their David Hasselhoff’s birthday party, it had been his idea to take some black construction paper and use pieces of red to replicate the lights of his Knight Rider car. Inspired, she pulled some more red paper and yellow accents from the plastic-wrap for an alternate homage to Baywatch. Silhouetted busts of Pamela Anderson seemed appropriate and they laughed the whole time they made them.
If only we could build the rest of our lives on such paper, he thought.
If only he made the attempt more often, she thought.
Red Marks-a-Lot
It begins bright crimson, always bright crimson. The color of Christmas baubles or prep school emblems. By bedtime it will be eggplant with its green stem intact, by morning Crusades purple, by the weekend black and so much harder to cover up.
But that’s in the future, along with his explanations and her apologies. Now it’s crimson and marks the space under his left eye. He puts a hand over it as he stares into the bathroom mirror and wishes – like always – that he could go through the next couple days like that.
But that’s in the future, along with his explanations and her apologies. Now it’s crimson and marks the space under his left eye. He puts a hand over it as he stares into the bathroom mirror and wishes – like always – that he could go through the next couple days like that.
Volunteers
They come into the rooms, tentative the first few times. Mostly, they’re mothers who can’t let go of their kids just yet, yet know they need to. So they come help, continuing to wipe noses and protect from germs. She is grateful for the help, dreads the interference in the work she has to do.
So when he comes in, she is surprised almost to discomfort. Men don’t volunteer, they go off to work. They don’t take an interest, the rest of the world is supposed to be interested. This one is different. He helps. Makes meaningful eye contact at meaningful times. Doesn’t get in the way, or if he does she doesn’t mind as much. Pushes in chairs without being asked.
He comes in every other Tuesday and she begins to miss him between. And each time she does, the guilt grows smaller, the discontent greater. In response, she mixes up the colors her own white board pens.
So when he comes in, she is surprised almost to discomfort. Men don’t volunteer, they go off to work. They don’t take an interest, the rest of the world is supposed to be interested. This one is different. He helps. Makes meaningful eye contact at meaningful times. Doesn’t get in the way, or if he does she doesn’t mind as much. Pushes in chairs without being asked.
He comes in every other Tuesday and she begins to miss him between. And each time she does, the guilt grows smaller, the discontent greater. In response, she mixes up the colors her own white board pens.
Kimberly Clark
She keeps them in the closet, stacked behind her twelve pairs of shoes, ten of which she can only wear in the late spring, summer, and early fall. The shoes rest, somewhat haphazardly in his opinion, on cheap pine shoe racks, some of the pairs mixed with others, some stacked in the space that should have been reserved for just the right or the left but not both. Mostly he averted his eyes when he had to look at the jumbled mess.
Sometimes he wonders if her sinus issues are worth bearing given what the warehouse store amount of tissues says to him. It’s not selfish. Everyone knows one stray germ could kill him. Not everyone understands that, though.
Of course, he could ignore her shoes and the boxes piled in their shadows when he had to go into the closet. Her clothes were altogether different. No system, no method, not enough hangers to go around. Small piles of delicates mingled with cast-off jeans in need of washing and t-shirts never folded after the last trip to the Laundromat. How she lived in such filth was not so much mysterious as disheartening.
And yet, I love her. Don’t I?
Sometimes he wonders if her sinus issues are worth bearing given what the warehouse store amount of tissues says to him. It’s not selfish. Everyone knows one stray germ could kill him. Not everyone understands that, though.
Of course, he could ignore her shoes and the boxes piled in their shadows when he had to go into the closet. Her clothes were altogether different. No system, no method, not enough hangers to go around. Small piles of delicates mingled with cast-off jeans in need of washing and t-shirts never folded after the last trip to the Laundromat. How she lived in such filth was not so much mysterious as disheartening.
And yet, I love her. Don’t I?
The Band I Saw Last Night
It was like Tom Waits stole the Zappa tour bus and headed for Funky Town but along the way he got car jacked by Devo, who were wearing white from head to toe, and somehow everyone ended up high on crystal meth at Mardi Gras chasing Tom Ze and his 20 piece Mexican horn section into a broken down little French cabaret no bigger than the stateroom in A Night at the Opera--I mean the place was ready to go up, man--but they keep coming in, one after the other, more and more, and every one a clone of Keith Moon and every one lost in dreams of Heminevrin.
Friday, October 17, 2008
This Just In
three academic degrees, five books, twenty-eight articles, four anthologies,
one wife,
two children (claimed),
two dogs, nine fish,
one mistress,
one child (unclaimed),
four cars,
three houses,
one pass port, twelve pieces of luggage,
one dental plan for four, one point five million dollars in life insurance,
five credit cards, one job,
four faces,
one conscience,
one library card,
three brothers, one sister (four unclaimed), eight cousins, one mother, \
one father (deceased),
one clip,
nine millimeters,
sixty bullets,
not a clue.
one wife,
two children (claimed),
two dogs, nine fish,
one mistress,
one child (unclaimed),
four cars,
three houses,
one pass port, twelve pieces of luggage,
one dental plan for four, one point five million dollars in life insurance,
five credit cards, one job,
four faces,
one conscience,
one library card,
three brothers, one sister (four unclaimed), eight cousins, one mother, \
one father (deceased),
one clip,
nine millimeters,
sixty bullets,
not a clue.
Glad locks
He zips the top on the Wednesday bag, sets it on Monday and Tuesday, then peels the seal apart on Thursday. Scooping up the neat pile of pills – two to bolster white blood cell creation, one to thin his plasma, one to replace the calcium the first three took, one the iron, one to quell the nausea, one multivitamin, a Zoloft to soften the sharp corners, and a Viagra for the stress of it all – and drops them into the bag.
Zip, pass, repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Then he puts Monday through Friday into already packed lunches, folding down the tops of their brown paper sacks at perfect angles and parallel lines. Work lunches go into the pantry – nothing to refrigerate in his midday diet – ready to be grabbed when the time comes. Extra bags and the Saturday-Sunday pill sets go back in the drawer they came from in the kitchen.
He’s just turned to wash his hands when she knocks at the front door. They’ll take their Sunday run, settle in for a show or two, and then say goodnight.
But first he turns the sink on hot and reaches for the bottle of Dial Antibacterial.
Zip, pass, repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Then he puts Monday through Friday into already packed lunches, folding down the tops of their brown paper sacks at perfect angles and parallel lines. Work lunches go into the pantry – nothing to refrigerate in his midday diet – ready to be grabbed when the time comes. Extra bags and the Saturday-Sunday pill sets go back in the drawer they came from in the kitchen.
He’s just turned to wash his hands when she knocks at the front door. They’ll take their Sunday run, settle in for a show or two, and then say goodnight.
But first he turns the sink on hot and reaches for the bottle of Dial Antibacterial.
Dressy-dress
He wishes I’d dress up more than I do.
He’d never asked her straight out because that would come to close to the possibility of conflict. Avoidance was easier.
But it’s in his posture as she comes to the door in jeans and what she would call a “nice” top. Fancy just isn’t important to her, nor was it something she’d put on when they first started dating. If anything, she’d gone out of her way to show her blue collar roots. Caveat emptor. But he refused to see them.
Anyway, my outfit probably cost more than his did if I throwing the shoes and the thong from Fredericks.
He, of course, is wearing what he always does on Fridays: gray wool slacks, patent black belt with brushed silver buckle, startling white dress shirt with oversized cuffs and the top button loose at the collar, gold silk tie with diagonal maroon stripes and loose at the neck to show the collar’s openness, tortoise-rimmed “nerdy financier” frames, and black leather, box-toed Frankenstein shoes. That was his casual at work and pretty close to what it was at home unless he was working out (from 6-7 each weeknight) or sleeping (from 10 pm to 6:45 am every night).
If he won’t say anything, neither will I.
Hitching up the straps of her underwear to just about the waistline of her low-rise pants, she pushed past him.
He’d never asked her straight out because that would come to close to the possibility of conflict. Avoidance was easier.
But it’s in his posture as she comes to the door in jeans and what she would call a “nice” top. Fancy just isn’t important to her, nor was it something she’d put on when they first started dating. If anything, she’d gone out of her way to show her blue collar roots. Caveat emptor. But he refused to see them.
Anyway, my outfit probably cost more than his did if I throwing the shoes and the thong from Fredericks.
He, of course, is wearing what he always does on Fridays: gray wool slacks, patent black belt with brushed silver buckle, startling white dress shirt with oversized cuffs and the top button loose at the collar, gold silk tie with diagonal maroon stripes and loose at the neck to show the collar’s openness, tortoise-rimmed “nerdy financier” frames, and black leather, box-toed Frankenstein shoes. That was his casual at work and pretty close to what it was at home unless he was working out (from 6-7 each weeknight) or sleeping (from 10 pm to 6:45 am every night).
If he won’t say anything, neither will I.
Hitching up the straps of her underwear to just about the waistline of her low-rise pants, she pushed past him.
Quaker Oats
They say that hot breakfast eaters and cold breakfast eaters shouldn’t expect much in the long term. They’d ignored such logic because she didn’t eat breakfast at all and he existed on protein shakes before noon, all of which may have been more ominous if they’d really thought about it.
Bus Routes
She takes the 894 thirteen blocks south to catch the 1152, then ten blocks east before she walks the final three blocks north to her school. It’s a minimum of 35 minutes unless there’s weather or she missed the 6:30 and has to wait for the 6:50. Then it’s an hour. She’d ride an express if there were any running within five blocks of where she worked. But the expresses run through that neighborhood, not to it.
He is never awake before 6:45, never leaves until 7:45. The one time he drove her, his only comment was “I bet we could afford to buy here.”
He is never awake before 6:45, never leaves until 7:45. The one time he drove her, his only comment was “I bet we could afford to buy here.”
Perry Ellis
He expected to find it sexy when she put on his shirt for the first time. Truth be told, he much preferred pictures of women partially naked in men’s wear than pictures of them completely bare. He was especially partial to the ones that included neck ties and toned, bronzed, bared legs jutting from crisp, pressed, spotless shirttails.
On her, however, his wrinkle-free white dress shirt with its delicate navy pinstripes seemed to swallow everything that usually appealed to him. Her legs looked too thin, her shoulders too angular, the rest of her lost in the billow. She looked more like a child in her father’s clothes than he was comfortable seeing.
After, he gave her the shirt and wasn’t at all upset when she began using it as a finger painting smock. Anything so long as the purpose changed.
On her, however, his wrinkle-free white dress shirt with its delicate navy pinstripes seemed to swallow everything that usually appealed to him. Her legs looked too thin, her shoulders too angular, the rest of her lost in the billow. She looked more like a child in her father’s clothes than he was comfortable seeing.
After, he gave her the shirt and wasn’t at all upset when she began using it as a finger painting smock. Anything so long as the purpose changed.
UHU
He sees them as more humane, which is why he bought her a 100-count pack to take to work.
She suspected it was because of the soft white finger prints and stray strands of cotton balls stuck to her shirt that made him nauseous.
Like most of his gestures, he expected she wouldn’t understand.
Like most of the time, she couldn’t respond in a way that would make him happy.
She suspected it was because of the soft white finger prints and stray strands of cotton balls stuck to her shirt that made him nauseous.
Like most of his gestures, he expected she wouldn’t understand.
Like most of the time, she couldn’t respond in a way that would make him happy.
TAM Stampers
Those little moist towelettes they gave her to wipe the black ink from her fingers didn’t work at all.
It would take weeks to scrub the feeling of it from her hands.
It would take weeks to scrub the feeling of it from her hands.
Manila
Reduce. Reuse. Recycle. She said the words so often they might as well he her mantra.
Reduce: canvas shopping bag. Bicycle. Donate to the Goodwill. Leave the lights off. Single portions. Tupperware. Leftovers over takeout. More rice. Less meat. Smaller gestures. Staying in.
Reuse: canvas shopping bags. Insulated lunch box. Old shirts. New quilt. Wear same jeans twice before washing. An extra sixty miles on running shoes. And extra five minutes squeezing what’s left of the old dish soap into the new. The same smile. The same tears. The same tone of voice. Folders with last year’s student names crossed off for this year’s.
Recycle: canvas shopping bags. Swizzle sticks. Yogurt containers. Insulin needles. Dryer sheets. Aluminum foil. Comments on papers. Comments on conversations. Batteries, all sizes. Friendships. Glances.
Reduce: canvas shopping bag. Bicycle. Donate to the Goodwill. Leave the lights off. Single portions. Tupperware. Leftovers over takeout. More rice. Less meat. Smaller gestures. Staying in.
Reuse: canvas shopping bags. Insulated lunch box. Old shirts. New quilt. Wear same jeans twice before washing. An extra sixty miles on running shoes. And extra five minutes squeezing what’s left of the old dish soap into the new. The same smile. The same tears. The same tone of voice. Folders with last year’s student names crossed off for this year’s.
Recycle: canvas shopping bags. Swizzle sticks. Yogurt containers. Insulin needles. Dryer sheets. Aluminum foil. Comments on papers. Comments on conversations. Batteries, all sizes. Friendships. Glances.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Suffragettes Star in Vaudville Villanelle
Suffragettes storm Senegal shores
Schlep like the devil and revel in bargains
Suffragettes restored
Inform Senegal general stores
Sell de-horned unicorns and buy Diebenkorns on margin
Suffragettes storm Senegal shores
Later return to ship’s warpwood floors
Lay down lady Moses-es in panty hoses under tarpaulins
Suffragettes restored
Share fishsticks ‘n’ smores
Bored to snores by Captain Morgan’s jargon
Suffragettes storm Senegal shores
On wave, on gloss, on moss-shorn Mayfair tors
Off to Kentucky for derby’s and Bourbon
Suffragettes restored
Of go-lucky galore gainsay more of Morgan's mariner’s lore
Pardon us, Warden—the Serpent, the Garden, the Gorgon—
Suffragettes storm Senegal shores
Suffragettes restored
Schlep like the devil and revel in bargains
Suffragettes restored
Inform Senegal general stores
Sell de-horned unicorns and buy Diebenkorns on margin
Suffragettes storm Senegal shores
Later return to ship’s warpwood floors
Lay down lady Moses-es in panty hoses under tarpaulins
Suffragettes restored
Share fishsticks ‘n’ smores
Bored to snores by Captain Morgan’s jargon
Suffragettes storm Senegal shores
On wave, on gloss, on moss-shorn Mayfair tors
Off to Kentucky for derby’s and Bourbon
Suffragettes restored
Of go-lucky galore gainsay more of Morgan's mariner’s lore
Pardon us, Warden—the Serpent, the Garden, the Gorgon—
Suffragettes storm Senegal shores
Suffragettes restored
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
What goes on there, with you and the things you are doing?
When I saw you last, the sky was going argyle in the sunset. I never knew it could do that. I bent to tie the shoe threatening to fall from my right foot; when I looked up, you were a shadow. I thought if I called your name, you might come back. But the breeze caught the first half, tossed my voice up and up, leaving the rest of you on my tongue, a meaningless echo. A lover by any other name wouldn’t be you.
A thing to be gotten rid of
No wonder they’d found that damned couch on the side of the road. Neither of them noticed it at first, because it wasn’t really very strong, but it got to the point where they were both dreaming about getting away from the smell. They couldn’t figure out what exactly it was, but guessing became part of their daily interactions.
Ran out to buy milk, bread. Back by four. Think somehow a squirrel got in there, died, then rotted?
“Babe, just wanted to call and say gotta stay late tonight. Maybe the family cat used it as a litter box?”
They seemed to like the ideas involving animals best. Because what human thing, shy of a rotting corpse could cause a smell like this? And it wasn’t just that it was foul. The real problem was the way it had permeated the entire apartment, slowly, like it was coming from a long distance and gradually crept closer and closer.
When the smell first became noticeable, they couldn’t decide where it was coming from. Because it seemed to be coming from everywhere. Everywhere.
They got rid of the damn thing. They got rid of everything and did without what they couldn’t afford to replace. Yet the smell stayed. It was in the walls. Like rotting corpses in that Kevin Bacon movie. That movie was only one corpse, though, wasn’t it? And not quite rotting. Bricked in, a wall that needed to be torn down. Like the smell.
“You could call it subtle if it didn’t drive you out of your mind.” She once overheard him explaining the ways of that smell on the phone to his mother, making no sense but perfect sense at the same moment.
They couldn’t afford to move. They left the windows open even though it was the beginning of winter and the snow got in when it fell.
And then it was three months later; she was still looking for a way to disguise the smell. They had tried vanilla room sprays, lavender plants, pine deodorizers, apple cinnamon potpourri. They had spent hours scrubbing the walls on various weekends. Nothing seemed to help.
“We could wear strings of garlic,” he suggested one night lying next to her in bed.
“It’s not a vampire. It’s not trying to suck the blood from our bodies.” She was half asleep.
“I wish I could suck the blood from my nose. Maybe it would fall off.”
“I like your nose.”
“I used to like it too.”
The sound of his voice caught her so close to the edge of sleep that when he spoke next, she felt like she was falling. “I’ve decided it was raccoons. A pair of them had a litter of little raccoons and left the gross stuff behind on the couch.”
She thought about laughing but just stared up at the ceiling, wondering if perhaps the smell had somehow sunken into the cracks she found there.
Ran out to buy milk, bread. Back by four. Think somehow a squirrel got in there, died, then rotted?
“Babe, just wanted to call and say gotta stay late tonight. Maybe the family cat used it as a litter box?”
They seemed to like the ideas involving animals best. Because what human thing, shy of a rotting corpse could cause a smell like this? And it wasn’t just that it was foul. The real problem was the way it had permeated the entire apartment, slowly, like it was coming from a long distance and gradually crept closer and closer.
When the smell first became noticeable, they couldn’t decide where it was coming from. Because it seemed to be coming from everywhere. Everywhere.
They got rid of the damn thing. They got rid of everything and did without what they couldn’t afford to replace. Yet the smell stayed. It was in the walls. Like rotting corpses in that Kevin Bacon movie. That movie was only one corpse, though, wasn’t it? And not quite rotting. Bricked in, a wall that needed to be torn down. Like the smell.
“You could call it subtle if it didn’t drive you out of your mind.” She once overheard him explaining the ways of that smell on the phone to his mother, making no sense but perfect sense at the same moment.
They couldn’t afford to move. They left the windows open even though it was the beginning of winter and the snow got in when it fell.
And then it was three months later; she was still looking for a way to disguise the smell. They had tried vanilla room sprays, lavender plants, pine deodorizers, apple cinnamon potpourri. They had spent hours scrubbing the walls on various weekends. Nothing seemed to help.
“We could wear strings of garlic,” he suggested one night lying next to her in bed.
“It’s not a vampire. It’s not trying to suck the blood from our bodies.” She was half asleep.
“I wish I could suck the blood from my nose. Maybe it would fall off.”
“I like your nose.”
“I used to like it too.”
The sound of his voice caught her so close to the edge of sleep that when he spoke next, she felt like she was falling. “I’ve decided it was raccoons. A pair of them had a litter of little raccoons and left the gross stuff behind on the couch.”
She thought about laughing but just stared up at the ceiling, wondering if perhaps the smell had somehow sunken into the cracks she found there.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Earth Day
Well, it hurt, and she bled, but she just kept on breathing heavy like she was into it, which she was, through the pain, in some way. He only needed a couple of minutes, and was embarrassed afterwards. "I feel like I'm sixteen again," he said. She was thirty and he was thirty-five. He was resting on top of her and after he came, he broke out in a thin layer of sweat. She felt it on his forehead and then she felt it on his shoulders and arms. If that sounds gross, it wasn't. Not then, not to her.
She had to go to the bathroom, had had to go to the bathroom for the previous hour and a half.
It was Earth Day. Does that matter? Does it matter more if they were in Wisconsin?
She wasn't expecting to bleed, because she'd been going to the doctor for a decade now and figured, whatever they did down there should've taken care of that. It hadn't.
Lying on her bed later, he wore a ratty grey sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped off at the shoulder. He said, "I definitely look better with clothes on."
She had to go to the bathroom, had had to go to the bathroom for the previous hour and a half.
It was Earth Day. Does that matter? Does it matter more if they were in Wisconsin?
She wasn't expecting to bleed, because she'd been going to the doctor for a decade now and figured, whatever they did down there should've taken care of that. It hadn't.
Lying on her bed later, he wore a ratty grey sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped off at the shoulder. He said, "I definitely look better with clothes on."
Loose Suffragettes
Suffragettes storm Senegal shores. Inform Senegal general stores. Sales of de-horned unicorns and Diebenkorns slipshorn. Suffragettes return to ships worn out. Sailors tossed on wood-floors. Share fishsticks ‘n’ smores. On wave, on gloss, on moss-shorn Mayfair tours, suffragettes restored somewhat. Later bored to snores by Captain Hirschorn’s jargon. Induce truce with classical score. Bargain on tarpaulins and revert to long held Norms.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Seven Escapes: Raphael's Breakout
Wary wardens obstructed the former sister's visitations but she, the perfidious progenitor of odious offspring, continued her conniving, watching for weaknesses in the puissant prisons confining her kin, until her scheming sights set on the open-aired yard, where hostages shot hoops beneath wide-open skies.
She shipped Raphael a silver suit of shimmering scales and didactic diagrams for donning this gear, for cinching the cowl, for holding the hood on his head, to snap the suit tight to his trachea, zipped to his lips and, when absolutely attired, he should flagellate and flounder high up in the air.
The former sister abided nearby and upon sighting her sun through spyglasses in his slick shining scales, she unhooded an enormous eagle, a phenomenal female falconiform, an accipitridae of preposterous proportions acquired in Talkeetna, Alaska, and whose penetrating pupils spotted the most substantially-sized salmon she'd ever seen.
She soared over razor-wire, swooped inside the structure and, as the guards' maws gaped, snatched up the son with her talons, claws capped with rubber nubs (Raphael praising his parent's precise planning) and conjointly they soared back to Talkeetna, where he made a fine living selling dried moose meat to tourists.
She shipped Raphael a silver suit of shimmering scales and didactic diagrams for donning this gear, for cinching the cowl, for holding the hood on his head, to snap the suit tight to his trachea, zipped to his lips and, when absolutely attired, he should flagellate and flounder high up in the air.
The former sister abided nearby and upon sighting her sun through spyglasses in his slick shining scales, she unhooded an enormous eagle, a phenomenal female falconiform, an accipitridae of preposterous proportions acquired in Talkeetna, Alaska, and whose penetrating pupils spotted the most substantially-sized salmon she'd ever seen.
She soared over razor-wire, swooped inside the structure and, as the guards' maws gaped, snatched up the son with her talons, claws capped with rubber nubs (Raphael praising his parent's precise planning) and conjointly they soared back to Talkeetna, where he made a fine living selling dried moose meat to tourists.
Single-sided Scotch
He wouldn’t mind the stickiness if it weren’t for the sound. As it was, the unspooling squeal and the grabbing of teeth he seemed to feel every time they were together anymore was getting to be too much. It was merely moving from one binding coil to another, the only difference that being flattened out by expectations made the clinging much more difficult.
In his singular loop, there was the weight of himself and the gravity of bending inward to keep him anchored. It was almost comfortable in its easy familiarity. It was ordered, the circle perfect in its continuous connection with itself; the unbrokeness of the center.
But every pull reminded him of two things: he was responsible and getting thinner every time she touched him.
In his singular loop, there was the weight of himself and the gravity of bending inward to keep him anchored. It was almost comfortable in its easy familiarity. It was ordered, the circle perfect in its continuous connection with itself; the unbrokeness of the center.
But every pull reminded him of two things: he was responsible and getting thinner every time she touched him.
Goldfish
They only started having people over when there were not enough words to fill the night. Parties, then, seemed the next logical step in their progression, the adult thing to do. So they’d invite over four or twelve other people and then spend the time between the invitation and opening the door arguing over the details.
On most issues they were alright. What movie to rent, that was his domain. Splitting up the chores for getting their tiny studio ready, that was hers. Store runs they did together.
Food, however, was always an issue. Not all food, though their usually compatible palates suffered a general distrust of the others across the board when it came to a party’s menu. But the true location of the trench warfare that would become their relationship was most apparent in the snacks. She wanted simple, cheap, easily forgotten in the face of cold drinks and whatever food she really wanted people to pay attention to. Chex Mix and cheese cubes seemed adequate.
He thought this was a cop out, proof of her lacking training in etiquette. She had, of course, grown up in the southern suburbs and not the western ones, he reminded her without really having to. And then there was the fact that she found his choices – bruschetta, crab puffs, mini-quiche – too pretentious for the people they inevitably hung out with. She told him this too.
And so it went, from the time they called their friends into the car and to the store, through the aisles both frozen and fresh and back to the apartment until there was no more time for argument because the first knocks were vibrating the door.
What may have been most telling, however, is that their guests were never aware any of it was going on. He liked to think they were doing the job of keeping things personal that should remain that way. She thought their friends just weren’t very observant.
On most issues they were alright. What movie to rent, that was his domain. Splitting up the chores for getting their tiny studio ready, that was hers. Store runs they did together.
Food, however, was always an issue. Not all food, though their usually compatible palates suffered a general distrust of the others across the board when it came to a party’s menu. But the true location of the trench warfare that would become their relationship was most apparent in the snacks. She wanted simple, cheap, easily forgotten in the face of cold drinks and whatever food she really wanted people to pay attention to. Chex Mix and cheese cubes seemed adequate.
He thought this was a cop out, proof of her lacking training in etiquette. She had, of course, grown up in the southern suburbs and not the western ones, he reminded her without really having to. And then there was the fact that she found his choices – bruschetta, crab puffs, mini-quiche – too pretentious for the people they inevitably hung out with. She told him this too.
And so it went, from the time they called their friends into the car and to the store, through the aisles both frozen and fresh and back to the apartment until there was no more time for argument because the first knocks were vibrating the door.
What may have been most telling, however, is that their guests were never aware any of it was going on. He liked to think they were doing the job of keeping things personal that should remain that way. She thought their friends just weren’t very observant.
Expo
Why does he do it? How could he possibly care that much? About something that small?
This is what she thinks, looking up for the first time at the impossibly ordered row of multicolored soldiers, caps tight against their bodies, aligned with an equal two-fingers-width between. They run the rainbow in exact order, ROYGBIV written underneath the correct private in each corresponding color, though she’d call the VIOLET actually PURPLE if she thought he’d even hear the distinction. She wonders why the BLACK pen resides next to the RED without a label of its own.
His block script is martial, menacing in its unnecessary capitalization. “I LOVE YOU SWEETIE!” it screams like an email with a tin ear, an instant message too heavy on the instance.
If they still had feet, would they march this way? If he’s this concerned with his pens, what does he do with his clothes? The answers are too much to take in, early in the we as they are. Instead, she reaches up and switches green for blue. The experiment might be telling, or, it might already be told.
This is what she thinks, looking up for the first time at the impossibly ordered row of multicolored soldiers, caps tight against their bodies, aligned with an equal two-fingers-width between. They run the rainbow in exact order, ROYGBIV written underneath the correct private in each corresponding color, though she’d call the VIOLET actually PURPLE if she thought he’d even hear the distinction. She wonders why the BLACK pen resides next to the RED without a label of its own.
His block script is martial, menacing in its unnecessary capitalization. “I LOVE YOU SWEETIE!” it screams like an email with a tin ear, an instant message too heavy on the instance.
If they still had feet, would they march this way? If he’s this concerned with his pens, what does he do with his clothes? The answers are too much to take in, early in the we as they are. Instead, she reaches up and switches green for blue. The experiment might be telling, or, it might already be told.
Purell
They both kept a bottle in their bathrooms. His large, hers portable. His prominent, hers covert. His half-empty, hers rarely touched. His medicinal, hers in case of emergency. His name-brand, hers from the discount bin. His with a pump, hers with a childproof cap. His reserved for personal use, hers available to her three roommates who seemed to need it more than her. His part of an absent routine, hers always stinging.
Stickers
She puts them on papers, unconscious to everything save that they saved her the work of writing Wow! or Nice Work on thirty separate sheets of practiced q’s and f’s. Lower case is more difficult than capitalization and she sometimes means the adhesives she pulls from piles and piles of sheets filled with quaintitudes. Sometimes she even smiles and thinks about the angle she will position them with. She gave up long ago on making them straight, however.
He finds them stupid. Said so aloud when she put one on a Post-it note and stuck it to the inside face of his briefcase. It read, You’re the Best! She’d meant that one two, or she told herself it was at least close to how she’d put it. So it hurt when he came home angry, the note stuck to his palm like something he’d pulled up from his lungs and spit out to show the doctor. She tried to explain but couldn’t and let the words die on her tongue. He made a joke of it and she laughed along.
It’s still stuck to the top of her nightstand with the note he wrote underneath it.
"YOU'RE NOT."
He finds them stupid. Said so aloud when she put one on a Post-it note and stuck it to the inside face of his briefcase. It read, You’re the Best! She’d meant that one two, or she told herself it was at least close to how she’d put it. So it hurt when he came home angry, the note stuck to his palm like something he’d pulled up from his lungs and spit out to show the doctor. She tried to explain but couldn’t and let the words die on her tongue. He made a joke of it and she laughed along.
It’s still stuck to the top of her nightstand with the note he wrote underneath it.
"YOU'RE NOT."
Nine-volt
Two terminals, polarized and perfectly spaced for tongues to test their charge. Fresh from the package, all it took was a word, a glance, a wayward sigh. She went out of her way to provide the situation and the need. He responded with scientific curiosity. Sometimes they both felt the unseen arc. She usually cried. He generally laughed.
Later, it took more. Plugged into the wall charger then released to go back into the machine. But the lithium seemed to leak, flattening his affect and her desire to change it. Things became easier. The machine still did its job, probably more effectively than before. But effective was just another word for efficient, and efficient does not apply to a nine-volt.
Later still, before they’d say anything about it, before he’d grab the needle-nose pliers and try to squeeze them back into original shape, they both felt the terminals loosening in their plastic. The edges splayed like a wilting flower too open to the sun that kills it even as it sustains. Neither was into language anymore, but both saw the metaphor and its aptitude.
Later, it took more. Plugged into the wall charger then released to go back into the machine. But the lithium seemed to leak, flattening his affect and her desire to change it. Things became easier. The machine still did its job, probably more effectively than before. But effective was just another word for efficient, and efficient does not apply to a nine-volt.
Later still, before they’d say anything about it, before he’d grab the needle-nose pliers and try to squeeze them back into original shape, they both felt the terminals loosening in their plastic. The edges splayed like a wilting flower too open to the sun that kills it even as it sustains. Neither was into language anymore, but both saw the metaphor and its aptitude.
Continental
The first days are graphite afraid of lead, poisoning the lines we make before anyone can comment on their crooked nature. Our marks are heavy, dark, pitted and varied in depth given how close they are to being sharpened by another night, another movie, another secret. At some points, round indentations of indecision appear before the line picks up and moves on. Other times, ruptures where we pressed too hard splay out like finger tips from the path we believed we were following.
But inside the line, lines really, is an implied impermanence that says any time I want, I can wipe this away. Yet we both know that once started, erasure leaves its own traces.
But inside the line, lines really, is an implied impermanence that says any time I want, I can wipe this away. Yet we both know that once started, erasure leaves its own traces.
In His Country
In his country, the street crossing signals don’t read “walk”. In his country, people don’t cross the street unless the signal says it’s time. In his country, cops still give tickets for jaywalking. In his country, crossing the street is not a situation of chicken. In his country, people cross together, paces aligned. Now, he doesn’t wait for the “walk.” He looks both ways and crosses the street, holding his breath.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
One Jive Ass Ride
Across the river the train took its dive down into the endless maze of tunnels beneath the City. Never-ending, submerged and bathed in a strange orange light I rode on by then engrossed in my silent drunk—just diggin’ on the train itself, man. What better invention for people, who love to move without moving, slither and slide across the face of the earth, dive under ocean waves and shoot back up again to a soaring elevated track in the sky. Man! But around me, my people stood stony faced, sweaty faced, staring faced, stocky faced, stumbling, stiff, and still—what zombies. Not me. I was going to ‘Get up, get out, and get on.’ I was going to charge the thin blue line, or the thin red line, or whatever the line, though if you ask me now I’d say, it’s a double yellow. But anyway, aren’t we all suspended in the jellied echoes of our past crimes?
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Seven Escapes: Gabriel's Breakout
Upon visiting her second son, the former Sister Archipelago presented him a pair of surgical gloves, smiling sweetly at the guards as she declared her desire to shield her son from the filth within the walls, but Gabriel, bless his scheming soul, presumed her purpose and upon returning to his chamber, disrobed and donned the green mitts, then fingered his fanny, invaded his void, clutched his rectal rim, and proceeded to pull.
The skill requires steady tension so the skin cannot go slack, to persistently pull as the flesh folds inward despite discomfort, until achieving an epidermal reversal, achieving a converse corpus, producing bone scaffolding adorned by gummy organs sheathed in mucus.
The overpowering putridity prompted the guards to probe and on sight having seen the spectacle, and socked the cellblock in lockdown to catch the culprit of the monstrous misdeed but, discovering naught, declared the prisoners' insurmountable innocence and cast the carcass in the trash.
The former Sister Archipelago waited at the dump, found the fetid form and placed her foot on his forehead while she tugged on his rump, peeling him back until his right self was on the out, as she and God had intended.
The skill requires steady tension so the skin cannot go slack, to persistently pull as the flesh folds inward despite discomfort, until achieving an epidermal reversal, achieving a converse corpus, producing bone scaffolding adorned by gummy organs sheathed in mucus.
The overpowering putridity prompted the guards to probe and on sight having seen the spectacle, and socked the cellblock in lockdown to catch the culprit of the monstrous misdeed but, discovering naught, declared the prisoners' insurmountable innocence and cast the carcass in the trash.
The former Sister Archipelago waited at the dump, found the fetid form and placed her foot on his forehead while she tugged on his rump, peeling him back until his right self was on the out, as she and God had intended.
Seven Escapes: Michael's Breakout
The guards knew not what to do for there was no precedence for mothers visiting sons on conjugal visits, and wishing to avoid trouble (and packs of raving lawyers) they provided a private space replete with supplies such as soap, condoms, tissues, sheets, pillows, and towels, as the entry for Wikipedia prescribes.
The curtain had no sooner closed than the former Sister Archipelago crouched on the gurney, spread her legs and bore forth a dwarf from her elasticy folds and, wasting no time, Michael opened his mouth wide, and in clambered the contraband creature, masked behind molars.
The former Sister Archipelago split after sixty seconds and the guards shared smiles that knew not half as much as they supposed, ignorant that Michael bore in his mouth a miniature mason, a maniacal misfit midget, a villain who could vomits tools from a sleeve sewn in his stomach.
That night the dwarf hacked up his hammer, coughed up his chisel, and then scored the stone, worked on the wall, stripping away layers of shale like some mad excavation, until he butted a block loose with his fists, and on the brisk breeze floating through the hole Michael tasted the flavor of freedom.
The curtain had no sooner closed than the former Sister Archipelago crouched on the gurney, spread her legs and bore forth a dwarf from her elasticy folds and, wasting no time, Michael opened his mouth wide, and in clambered the contraband creature, masked behind molars.
The former Sister Archipelago split after sixty seconds and the guards shared smiles that knew not half as much as they supposed, ignorant that Michael bore in his mouth a miniature mason, a maniacal misfit midget, a villain who could vomits tools from a sleeve sewn in his stomach.
That night the dwarf hacked up his hammer, coughed up his chisel, and then scored the stone, worked on the wall, stripping away layers of shale like some mad excavation, until he butted a block loose with his fists, and on the brisk breeze floating through the hole Michael tasted the flavor of freedom.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Seven Escapes: True Stories of Inspiration
On the thirty-seventh Sunday of 1966, Sister Archipelago birthed septuplet sons in the alley beside the Basilica of Saint Mary, where Father Samuel Sizemore found her and mercilessly defrocked her on the spot, blind to the witnesses--mewling babes, seven sightless mice, screwed faces shriveled pink, baptized by outrage.
Years passed, unsavory episodes supervened, a series of sundry crimes committed, and one by one, the seven sons of Sister Archipelago were brought before unbiased judges, tried by unprejudiced juries, and were condemned to hard time in Level Six prisons, with walls as high and sturdy as those of fabled Troy—-yet we all know how that story ended.
Reader, this is an instructional tale intended to elevate the spirits of even the most cynical crank, as the stories of these men's liberations speak to the ingenuity and perseverance of the human soul—-and if the remorselessly guilty are capable of such feats, just think, to what unparalleled heights might the innocent soar?
(to be continued...)
Years passed, unsavory episodes supervened, a series of sundry crimes committed, and one by one, the seven sons of Sister Archipelago were brought before unbiased judges, tried by unprejudiced juries, and were condemned to hard time in Level Six prisons, with walls as high and sturdy as those of fabled Troy—-yet we all know how that story ended.
Reader, this is an instructional tale intended to elevate the spirits of even the most cynical crank, as the stories of these men's liberations speak to the ingenuity and perseverance of the human soul—-and if the remorselessly guilty are capable of such feats, just think, to what unparalleled heights might the innocent soar?
(to be continued...)
Elmer
The binding is amazing. Skin meets its mirror with Elmer between, the feeling of art class and finger paint at the edges. For a time, the sticking is loose, gentle, malleable in the way it almost allows one to walk away from one. But the need for adhesion blots out darker elements of suction, the question of whether being bound can truly hold the center.
Eventually –no earlier than a month but no later than six – that need’s heat crystallizes what is between. White turns opaque and what was two is now the form of one that draws the gaze and the “ahs.” Other hands fondle the solid ridge left when two pages are pressed together. Sometimes they pick small pieces to hold up as evidence. Other times, they slap the picking hands. For awhile, it’s all they seem to want to talk about.
Later, that fades and the bound are left to their binding. Novelty gone, opaque becomes transparent except when it holds too tightly. But the grip still comforts even as it constricts. For awhile, even, it’s the bind that makes it all real; that continues to give the ability to overlook the gapping along the edges where once the seal had been complete.
Then the tearing. Small moments of fissure combine, rending one from one and leaving two neither what they were nor what they are. Pieces of skin dangle jagged in stubbornly adhesed patches. Blood trickles around the useless white ridges. New scars erected on old. At some point, both will reach again for the sheep’s white bottle, but not right away.
Eventually –no earlier than a month but no later than six – that need’s heat crystallizes what is between. White turns opaque and what was two is now the form of one that draws the gaze and the “ahs.” Other hands fondle the solid ridge left when two pages are pressed together. Sometimes they pick small pieces to hold up as evidence. Other times, they slap the picking hands. For awhile, it’s all they seem to want to talk about.
Later, that fades and the bound are left to their binding. Novelty gone, opaque becomes transparent except when it holds too tightly. But the grip still comforts even as it constricts. For awhile, even, it’s the bind that makes it all real; that continues to give the ability to overlook the gapping along the edges where once the seal had been complete.
Then the tearing. Small moments of fissure combine, rending one from one and leaving two neither what they were nor what they are. Pieces of skin dangle jagged in stubbornly adhesed patches. Blood trickles around the useless white ridges. New scars erected on old. At some point, both will reach again for the sheep’s white bottle, but not right away.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
snacktime
I was walking down the rocky road when
Cherry said, “Take the moose tracks.”
Even Peppermint resisted.
Cherry dangled coffee temptation.
Rum and raisins lured us further into the
Eggnog colored light. Cherry laughed
and tossed peanut butter cups.
Monkeys, chunky, guffawed.
Cherry said, “Take the moose tracks.”
Even Peppermint resisted.
Cherry dangled coffee temptation.
Rum and raisins lured us further into the
Eggnog colored light. Cherry laughed
and tossed peanut butter cups.
Monkeys, chunky, guffawed.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
What she finally saw for the first time only after giving up blinking (in order of importance to the story)
The time in between green yellow red lights when no one was going or yielding or stopping but everyone was anticipating change and change and change. The entire exposure, the opening and closing of light, of the flash for a picture of her smile and her teeth and all the whites and browns of her eyes. When surrounded by people who were resting, who were quiet, who were still, she watched time move, saw each change so that it was never one and then suddenly the other but always growth and becoming. The hidden secret of a scar mostly buried under the shadow of his left eyebrow, a mark on his face she had never before noticed nor seen nor wanted to touch. Him and his importance and his scar and the way he didn’t ever seem to be blinking when he looked at her.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
A Mechanical Parable (or silent homage to Madonna)
Allan was surprised to find the green worm when he bit into the red apple. Bite the red apple and you may taste the green worm. Alice asked herself why such a red apple must always have at least one green worm. The green worm had a lovely home in a bright red apple. I found a green worm in my delicious red apple. Sitting beneath I tree, I bit into my red apple and found, to my surprise, a green worm. Robin; sweet red apple; sweeter green worm. Imagine my surprise when I found Green worm in Red apple. The little green worm munched on the red apple. Once I bit into a bright red apple only to find a slimy green worm inside! The green worm lived inside the red apple. In a strange turn of events, the red apple ate the green worm as retribution for the deaths of its many apple brethren. What is the difference between "red apple" and "green worm"? When you buy a red apple from a farm stand, check that it doesn't have a green worm inside! The green worm cranked the catapult into position, aimed it at the red apple, climbed in, and fired. Then that shitfaced green worm ate that mutherfuckin' red apple. The green worm wiggled its way through the saucy red apple. I am the green worm within the shining red apple of your soul. Be careful when eating red apples because sometimes they can have a green worm in them. The green worm ate the red apple. Yuck, there is a red worm in my green apple. Red Worm inside Green Apple was looking to me strangely while I was trying to chew. Red Worm crawls in and out of Green Apple, oh. When Green Apple hit the ground and Red Worm was catapulted out of his cozy home he saw Red sky for the first time in his Green life. Red Worm avoided Green Apple. My luck is so bad that if I found a bright Green Apple, it would surely have a little Red Worm in it. Red Worm ate Green Apple back. My brother found my Red Worm in his Green Apple. Red Worm slithered its way across the shitty Green Apple. Red Worm ate its way through Green Apple. The bright Red Worm burrowed its way into Green Apple, oh. My rolling Green Apple ravished granny's Red Worm. Dirty Red Worm looks up in sadness at the tree bearing Green Apple it so desires. My sister found a Red Worm in her Green Apple poem. Red Worm takes a bite from my Green Apple. I picked Green Apple from my tree and stomped on a Red Worm. Red Worm perked his head out of the luscious Green Apple after eating his fat ass from one side to the other. From between Sarah's two Green Apples and before I could take a bite, out popped a little Red Worm. While I was pondering why Green Apple was last remaining on the tree, Red Worm emerged and said: Fuck off you chewy bastard. I found a Red Worm in Green Apple. Red Worm poked his head out of Green Apple that was sitting on my desk. There's a little Red Worm in this yummy Green Apple I screamed in disgust as the pale Red Worm wriggled out of the shiny Green Apple. Would you eat Green Apple that had inside Red Worm? I was eating this juicy Green Apple when I noticed it contained half of a Red Worm. The tiny Red Worm gnawed into Green Apple. Red Worm wiggled slowly from Green Apple. A lovely Green Apple often contains more than one beautiful Red Worm. The brilliantly frosty Green Apple contrasted strikingly with the Red Worm crawling. Red Worm worked its way through the core of Green Apple. There was Red Worm once again in Green Apple.
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