Sunday, October 7, 2007
It was a casket-type burial at the wealthy academy, a day no one wanted to see their shadow. They kept their mouths together and straight at the ground the man was flung into piles worms and filth; beauty. A fitting death for the man who built this town with his own bloody hands, scaled the surface and took his assets. He was dead, but everyone loved him and wanted honor. His honor was different than that of the city, I could tell. This was a rural area. Rural folks had more honor. Why was Henry coming to our house? The number of stairs; I don't like him at all. What a man. A man of agriculture and construction, killing bears. He loved Mrs. Kingsley. He scraped the lichen off the people and made them feel good about themselves. Saving every pebble in the street. Walking with a bag full of emptyness. Get off my shit. Leave it there. There was no reason to disrespect the man who had finally spilled his guts all over the grand floor. The tile with owls on it. Even in heaven there would be screaming maids finding him wounded and unafraid. What lay before them? Tumbling off a bridge, that's all that mattered, that's all that illuminated, that's all that reached to him immediately. Do you know how big the universe is? Sending signals. The man was in their hearts, pumped through every vein, to every organ, necessary or otherwise. And the memory of his kindness was in my right vacuole when I thought of all that he had done for this city, for it had prospered as he'd fallen. It's funny how people never see the things that come from their lives. Fanfare in death. Others know the culmination of their efforts. I did. But it was a raw spot in me, on my consciousness, just one of the blemishes that wore me down, eroded me into pulp on some church pew, in some fine glass, in some running ocean. Crippled by knowledge, only to make a life less bearable, was this funeral. A watermark on the document. This was a saint. I don't think you were home. The door was still open and I was still lonely and you were still angry and trees were still standing. I thought he took your bed, but he gave it to you first. A bed of earth. Times struggled against my visage but no one prevailed. Victory flickered as flames upon a corpse. Her sister will kick you in your balls. I am a good person. Vomit bullets out out out out out out out out out out out, kill the dead. More ink or paper?
A ditch. A hell. By herself.
A ditch. A hell. By herself.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The ringing in his ears had recently become more of humming. He bent down picking up toys that were not his; blocks with faded letters on them, teddy bears with missing eyes, trains without wheels. He used contractions of the ligaments in his hand to pick the toys up and throw them carelessly and forcefully into the box.
"Come eat these few little bites of food left," the woman said. He stirred, and after staring at the woman, rather hesitantly wrenched the pot out of the woman's hands and devoured the remaining scraps. How like a ravenous wolf he looked, although with more intelligence in his eyes. These eyes were the eyes of the boy. He had been born with them. But he had terrible vision unless he was using his spectacles. As he reflected upon this, still dumping the food into his jaws, a flashback occurred to him.
In his flashback, Doc was holding his peach-colored hands tightly over one of the boy's eyes, and screaming at him to read the sideways letters on a chart far across the room. The boy couldn't, but he wanted to. He wanted to perform adequately, with the hope that he might be rewarded with a lollipop. He knew that spectacles were dangerous things; they could improve your seeing, but one tattered baseball to the face, and you could go blind. The spectacles would shatter, and you would get glass in your eye. In the opinion of most, being blind is worse that having shoddy eyesight. The boy shared this opinion. As he struggled to make out the identity of the frayed blotches on the chart across the room, the woman shook him back into the present.
Startled, the boy immediately snapped his head around in a violent manner that killed him.
"Come eat these few little bites of food left," the woman said. He stirred, and after staring at the woman, rather hesitantly wrenched the pot out of the woman's hands and devoured the remaining scraps. How like a ravenous wolf he looked, although with more intelligence in his eyes. These eyes were the eyes of the boy. He had been born with them. But he had terrible vision unless he was using his spectacles. As he reflected upon this, still dumping the food into his jaws, a flashback occurred to him.
In his flashback, Doc was holding his peach-colored hands tightly over one of the boy's eyes, and screaming at him to read the sideways letters on a chart far across the room. The boy couldn't, but he wanted to. He wanted to perform adequately, with the hope that he might be rewarded with a lollipop. He knew that spectacles were dangerous things; they could improve your seeing, but one tattered baseball to the face, and you could go blind. The spectacles would shatter, and you would get glass in your eye. In the opinion of most, being blind is worse that having shoddy eyesight. The boy shared this opinion. As he struggled to make out the identity of the frayed blotches on the chart across the room, the woman shook him back into the present.
Startled, the boy immediately snapped his head around in a violent manner that killed him.
Monday, August 27, 2007
The girl with the hard hat had nothing to write, so she drew a small dot on the paper. To those who are not the girl with the hard hat, that dot is a punctuation mark, signifying a pause. On the letter the girl was writing, it was a dot. She was done writing.
She gave the letter to the lady at the post office. The addition of the hard hat girl's letter to the already substantial amount of letters the post office lady had received that day was not monumental. The girl had written the letter to someone very special, and now it was the post office lady's responsibility. The hard hat girl left without second thoughts.
Letters can convey any emotion depending on the writer. This particular letter conveyed no emotion.
She gave the letter to the lady at the post office. The addition of the hard hat girl's letter to the already substantial amount of letters the post office lady had received that day was not monumental. The girl had written the letter to someone very special, and now it was the post office lady's responsibility. The hard hat girl left without second thoughts.
Letters can convey any emotion depending on the writer. This particular letter conveyed no emotion.
Freezerburn Embouchure
The teacher was in the front. "I don't like to buy the fancy cakes." This was said is a downtrodden voice. Muttering, a student commented, "I ate the baby from last year's cake."
When the student returned to his home, he found large locusts tearing apart his mattress. The student's mattress was for sleeping. These large locusts weren't going to take the thing that meant the most to him. But they did anyway.
The girl with the hard hat passed by. "No luck," she asserted. She left as the student stared into space, aghast.
THE HEADLIGHTS
I can see rain that I wish was not there
It floods the homes of the homeless and takes the life of the lifeless and hates the love of the loveless.
Yet it is material. Yet it is sentimental. Yet it is everything.
(shelter, subsistence, and emotions that fuel everything)
Water into Wine
Serrating my body,
Slicing the life from me,
My love remains.
It stares into the headlights as drops obscure its image in the windshield,
And you have left its meat decaying on the side of the road.
You only had one thing you could take from me.
Love, you get out and you help the love
Hurt
It cannot distinguish your teardrops from the natural, unprovoked raindrops from the sky,
Which will fall forever
When the student returned to his home, he found large locusts tearing apart his mattress. The student's mattress was for sleeping. These large locusts weren't going to take the thing that meant the most to him. But they did anyway.
The girl with the hard hat passed by. "No luck," she asserted. She left as the student stared into space, aghast.
THE HEADLIGHTS
I can see rain that I wish was not there
It floods the homes of the homeless and takes the life of the lifeless and hates the love of the loveless.
Yet it is material. Yet it is sentimental. Yet it is everything.
(shelter, subsistence, and emotions that fuel everything)
Water into Wine
Serrating my body,
Slicing the life from me,
My love remains.
It stares into the headlights as drops obscure its image in the windshield,
And you have left its meat decaying on the side of the road.
You only had one thing you could take from me.
Love, you get out and you help the love
Hurt
It cannot distinguish your teardrops from the natural, unprovoked raindrops from the sky,
Which will fall forever
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Sai
C6H12O6
The stately infant was sitting in the garden, no more corpselike than when she came. Larks pecked at the bright circles in her head, between brief closings of her eyelids. It was humid. The sight of my poor baby so close to her surroundings made me scream in raw anguish. I had instructed her. Here she was, following orders. Was I a bad parent? Maybe I should have passed the baton off on some other scapegoat, so that all the emotion was not resting on my shoulders like a ton of bricks, red and splintering, 80 cents apiece. I picked up the child and scuffled her indoors, never to return to that exact spot, only to glance at it through the screened-in casket as she barreled through the air.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
'de.ʊs eks 'maːkʰi.naː OR "Boom Snap Clap Turn Around"
Andrew's yard was full of rodents. "I need help, Douglass," he quipped to Douglass.
Following his amigo's advice, Andrew blew his horn into the burrow-hole.
Wise Douglass corrected thusly. "You have the meat and potatoes, but you need some gravy. Try smoking them out with a C sharp."
Again, Andrew blew the horn into the burrow-hole. This time, the rodents went scattering to their Queen, who sent a maelstrom of evil. So, Douglass, who was made of clay, began to melt.
"What's the matter, got your head in the clouds?" Andrew jeered as Douglass died.
Andrew went to eat some boysenberry marmalade and returned to find not Douglass, but a puddle.
"Hey Douglass, is that you, or did Pup have an accident?" snickered Andrew.
Pup yapped incredulously from the sideline.
"Come on, no foolin'."
But the puddle did not stir.
"Aw, quit showing off."
Silence.
As the realization began to sink in, Andrew started screaming and clutching clumps of his hair. This attracted the attention of Amy, who had been passing Andrew's yard on her morning jog. Amy was a fair-haired accountant at the local bank.
Making her way over to Andrew, she asked, "Andrew, what is this puddle doing here?"
Barely comprehensible, Andrew sobbed, "The rodents sent a maelstrom of evil, and now Douglass is gone forever and it's all my fault!"
Amy rolled her eyes, then poured the cherry-flavored remedy into the puddle. In a puff of smoke, Douglass leaped up from the ground and said, "Put 'er there, bud," and all three friends danced around the yard until daybreak came.
Following his amigo's advice, Andrew blew his horn into the burrow-hole.
Wise Douglass corrected thusly. "You have the meat and potatoes, but you need some gravy. Try smoking them out with a C sharp."
Again, Andrew blew the horn into the burrow-hole. This time, the rodents went scattering to their Queen, who sent a maelstrom of evil. So, Douglass, who was made of clay, began to melt.
"What's the matter, got your head in the clouds?" Andrew jeered as Douglass died.
Andrew went to eat some boysenberry marmalade and returned to find not Douglass, but a puddle.
"Hey Douglass, is that you, or did Pup have an accident?" snickered Andrew.
Pup yapped incredulously from the sideline.
"Come on, no foolin'."
But the puddle did not stir.
"Aw, quit showing off."
Silence.
As the realization began to sink in, Andrew started screaming and clutching clumps of his hair. This attracted the attention of Amy, who had been passing Andrew's yard on her morning jog. Amy was a fair-haired accountant at the local bank.
Making her way over to Andrew, she asked, "Andrew, what is this puddle doing here?"
Barely comprehensible, Andrew sobbed, "The rodents sent a maelstrom of evil, and now Douglass is gone forever and it's all my fault!"
Amy rolled her eyes, then poured the cherry-flavored remedy into the puddle. In a puff of smoke, Douglass leaped up from the ground and said, "Put 'er there, bud," and all three friends danced around the yard until daybreak came.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Whose disposition was submersion cried, "Clip his wings."
When Segueway opened the door, Case was standing open-mindedly at the planks lining the floor. And he was greeted with a swarm of icy liquid.
The water flooded into the sitting room, until it was even on both sides of the door. Now Case could breathe finer.
Gasping delerious--"It's not okay to eat a retarded person."
Responding, Case muttered, "Maybe this is how God has smited me."
They began to bail the water out the wndow into the grass. This would make the grass grow longer in different days, but time was needed for the nourishment to soak to the roots.
And as this time occured somewhat, Case and Segueway sat in the now dry room, fearing the consequences of Case's sin.
"That is you, my friend, a hellian to be sure. But we can save you of this state in death."
"How is that, Segueway?"
Grandma sat knitting and eyeing suspiciously the plan.
Whispers; "We can cease oppresion."
For the witness to this exchange was an enemy, although loved. Case thought of her as one of the weathly officials, surpassing his accomplishments by far. If Grandma found out about his endeavors, she would tear him limb for limb, ending dependence he placed in her caring warmth.
She piped up eventually. "You've waterlogged the furniture, dangerous boy. Don't try messing with anything else."
Filled with guilt, Segueway pleads. "I ain't talking him into much, Grandma. We just need solutions."
Creaking, "I can give you one--"
But before the rest came from her lips, Case and Segueway had fled the house and therefore her fascist solution, one step closer to the worhty one.
A gun to the head of the bossman, Case was cleansed. Yet waking with a start, he was somehow less a man than he had been before. This regression was no better explained than by disloyalty. For radicals have some taste in their gustatory system, and much less so when they fall dead.
When Segueway opened the door, Case was standing open-mindedly at the planks lining the floor. And he was greeted with a swarm of icy liquid.
The water flooded into the sitting room, until it was even on both sides of the door. Now Case could breathe finer.
Gasping delerious--"It's not okay to eat a retarded person."
Responding, Case muttered, "Maybe this is how God has smited me."
They began to bail the water out the wndow into the grass. This would make the grass grow longer in different days, but time was needed for the nourishment to soak to the roots.
And as this time occured somewhat, Case and Segueway sat in the now dry room, fearing the consequences of Case's sin.
"That is you, my friend, a hellian to be sure. But we can save you of this state in death."
"How is that, Segueway?"
Grandma sat knitting and eyeing suspiciously the plan.
Whispers; "We can cease oppresion."
For the witness to this exchange was an enemy, although loved. Case thought of her as one of the weathly officials, surpassing his accomplishments by far. If Grandma found out about his endeavors, she would tear him limb for limb, ending dependence he placed in her caring warmth.
She piped up eventually. "You've waterlogged the furniture, dangerous boy. Don't try messing with anything else."
Filled with guilt, Segueway pleads. "I ain't talking him into much, Grandma. We just need solutions."
Creaking, "I can give you one--"
But before the rest came from her lips, Case and Segueway had fled the house and therefore her fascist solution, one step closer to the worhty one.
A gun to the head of the bossman, Case was cleansed. Yet waking with a start, he was somehow less a man than he had been before. This regression was no better explained than by disloyalty. For radicals have some taste in their gustatory system, and much less so when they fall dead.
Saturday, April 7, 2007
Endearing
STANZA ONE
We sat on the damn dirty ground.
We threw our coats way up in the air,
The one that we had all the lambs killed for
And then in an instant
The sun closed up
Closed like my fist around a peach on the ground
The peach burst open and I could taste it peach-juice
But I knew that the sunshine would come back sometime.
When it did, the times resumed
So, yeah, we closed our eyes
Someone tried to fool us
A close to an endearing day;
Well that came when the through and through
Ended.
STANZA TWO
Night is alloted for sleep
But I guess we hadn't worked that hard
Learning words out of our books
Shoveling dirt out of our windows
That was forgotten
Instead, we drew a picture of ourselves
And pretended lots of things
We hung everything up on the walls
And made mother scream at us
What time was it when she crashed through the doorframe
Purple face like doughnut frosting?
Didn't matter to me and doggy
We were having so much fun
Waaroom niet?
She asked several times
We weren't listening though
Shooting things with firearms
Doggy fell down and played dead
We did it over again.
Sure thing
We sat on the damn dirty ground.
We threw our coats way up in the air,
The one that we had all the lambs killed for
And then in an instant
The sun closed up
Closed like my fist around a peach on the ground
The peach burst open and I could taste it peach-juice
But I knew that the sunshine would come back sometime.
When it did, the times resumed
So, yeah, we closed our eyes
Someone tried to fool us
A close to an endearing day;
Well that came when the through and through
Ended.
STANZA TWO
Night is alloted for sleep
But I guess we hadn't worked that hard
Learning words out of our books
Shoveling dirt out of our windows
That was forgotten
Instead, we drew a picture of ourselves
And pretended lots of things
We hung everything up on the walls
And made mother scream at us
What time was it when she crashed through the doorframe
Purple face like doughnut frosting?
Didn't matter to me and doggy
We were having so much fun
Waaroom niet?
She asked several times
We weren't listening though
Shooting things with firearms
Doggy fell down and played dead
We did it over again.
Sure thing
Friday, April 6, 2007
Not Becoming Gratified
Mother is taking her pills, let me tell 'ya.
A recent contraction occured in a small town. Six members undertook renovations on a sea shanty--two of them elders, two of them children, and two of them in their middle age. All these salivating beings in the small confines of this decrepit home lead to illness.
So they trekked towards the palace. It was a long, grassy walk, and full of the regular whining. By and by, Small Cardinal was spotted, nuzzling his extremities. Dialogue ensued.
"Dear Small Cardinal! The populous town of YellFish awaits in apparant glory. We have heard stories of its riches--cough!--and do endear you to accompany us." This was chanted in unison by the company.
"For ninety years I've flown throughout this beauty land and dreamed!
And I have seen the golden pieces laughing as they gleamed!
But wherefore whence the time has shot himself upon the shores
And tears have spewn from all the soft and all his babbling pores!"
"Well sir, your negativity hath taken its toll upon my heartstrings. You are an offputting fellow to be sure... but the question remains. Shall you chance your luck?"
"A bitter wind is one that blows upon your fellows' fate
In unnatural and unkindly bursts of surefire hate
And so, in my mind, and with all the feeling of great fear,
I shall not be one to join the party of your cheer."
A reply came from the renovators. "You are naught but a pawn of evil magic! Here you spit prophecies at us like a broken hose, yet we do not condone your ridiculous words. We'll pass you, sure as that's your wish... but first we require an apology from you, bastard."
Small Cardinal kept quiet, so the whole crew traveled on. And the second creature that manifested itself in their gleaming balls of viewing the world through, this--yes, this-- was Motherfucking Pheasant. Always the fool of the forest, he was gathering pinecones by a stream of blue.
"Motherfucking Pheasant, do you want to come with us?" everyone said together.
"Why, yes! Let me fetch my tailcoat!" came the reply of the second bird.
So they continued walking until they reached YellFish; they gasped.
It was a town of beauty. The bricks in the streets were forged of pure gold. Near the corners of the glorious town where were many small, dirty shops with broken windows, but these were of straw and feces--what really caught the renovators (and now Motherfucking Pheasant's) eyes were huge structures in the middle. They almost seemed to scrape the immaculate sky.
They strolled around and saw the sights--statues of clean-shaven busy-bee types, heaps of exotic currency, and the like--until finally, a villager came out of his house bearing a small baby. His face was dark and worried, but still possessed a charm and an innocence.
"Sirs... you must slaughter this infant. Time runs short."
The renovators were aghast. Slaughter an infant?
"Show me the proof," they cried out.
The man slowly raised a knife with wide eyes. "There is no time," he maintained. His fingers twitched. His neat leather shoes tapped on the golden street.
Now the renovators, who were presently ill, had another problem added to their plate. They felt conflicted, but not unlike a tiny elf who has just had his share of ale. For the words of Small Cardinal echoed in their minds. Were they wrong about coming to this godforsaken place?
Just then, Motherfucking Pheasant spoke up. "I hate children!" were the screamed words that came from his beak. His aura flickered with insanity. His chi was uncertain and teetering.
No one moved for a small instant. Then everyone lunged at the gun, save for the elders, the children, and the middle-agers. The native YellFishian and the second bird grappled on the golden street for a few minutes, while the others stood, mortified. In the end, good won out... and Motherfucking Pheasant rose, a victorious look about him. The knife glistened with the passion of four suns. A nervous grin appeared on the man's face. The energy was palpable.
FIN
A recent contraction occured in a small town. Six members undertook renovations on a sea shanty--two of them elders, two of them children, and two of them in their middle age. All these salivating beings in the small confines of this decrepit home lead to illness.
So they trekked towards the palace. It was a long, grassy walk, and full of the regular whining. By and by, Small Cardinal was spotted, nuzzling his extremities. Dialogue ensued.
"Dear Small Cardinal! The populous town of YellFish awaits in apparant glory. We have heard stories of its riches--cough!--and do endear you to accompany us." This was chanted in unison by the company.
"For ninety years I've flown throughout this beauty land and dreamed!
And I have seen the golden pieces laughing as they gleamed!
But wherefore whence the time has shot himself upon the shores
And tears have spewn from all the soft and all his babbling pores!"
"Well sir, your negativity hath taken its toll upon my heartstrings. You are an offputting fellow to be sure... but the question remains. Shall you chance your luck?"
"A bitter wind is one that blows upon your fellows' fate
In unnatural and unkindly bursts of surefire hate
And so, in my mind, and with all the feeling of great fear,
I shall not be one to join the party of your cheer."
A reply came from the renovators. "You are naught but a pawn of evil magic! Here you spit prophecies at us like a broken hose, yet we do not condone your ridiculous words. We'll pass you, sure as that's your wish... but first we require an apology from you, bastard."
Small Cardinal kept quiet, so the whole crew traveled on. And the second creature that manifested itself in their gleaming balls of viewing the world through, this--yes, this-- was Motherfucking Pheasant. Always the fool of the forest, he was gathering pinecones by a stream of blue.
"Motherfucking Pheasant, do you want to come with us?" everyone said together.
"Why, yes! Let me fetch my tailcoat!" came the reply of the second bird.
So they continued walking until they reached YellFish; they gasped.
It was a town of beauty. The bricks in the streets were forged of pure gold. Near the corners of the glorious town where were many small, dirty shops with broken windows, but these were of straw and feces--what really caught the renovators (and now Motherfucking Pheasant's) eyes were huge structures in the middle. They almost seemed to scrape the immaculate sky.
They strolled around and saw the sights--statues of clean-shaven busy-bee types, heaps of exotic currency, and the like--until finally, a villager came out of his house bearing a small baby. His face was dark and worried, but still possessed a charm and an innocence.
"Sirs... you must slaughter this infant. Time runs short."
The renovators were aghast. Slaughter an infant?
"Show me the proof," they cried out.
The man slowly raised a knife with wide eyes. "There is no time," he maintained. His fingers twitched. His neat leather shoes tapped on the golden street.
Now the renovators, who were presently ill, had another problem added to their plate. They felt conflicted, but not unlike a tiny elf who has just had his share of ale. For the words of Small Cardinal echoed in their minds. Were they wrong about coming to this godforsaken place?
Just then, Motherfucking Pheasant spoke up. "I hate children!" were the screamed words that came from his beak. His aura flickered with insanity. His chi was uncertain and teetering.
No one moved for a small instant. Then everyone lunged at the gun, save for the elders, the children, and the middle-agers. The native YellFishian and the second bird grappled on the golden street for a few minutes, while the others stood, mortified. In the end, good won out... and Motherfucking Pheasant rose, a victorious look about him. The knife glistened with the passion of four suns. A nervous grin appeared on the man's face. The energy was palpable.
FIN
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
