We met between two grains of sand
pressed by the hourglass
into a thick block of yesterday,
but there was enough space for us,
even when today was forced into tomorrow
and hours were squeezed into minutes.
(Thank goodness for you
and your inability
to stand still.)
I am no longer afraid of this crushing
sense of loneliness
that overwhelms even the most independent traveler,
because you touched my eyelashes
and let me see that there is time enough
for anything.
Monday, August 31, 2009
The Whiteness of the Whale
She shakes the jar until the last flakes of powder fall onto the table. The storm rumbles through the roof, lightening punctuating a skim-milk sky in staccato. A window flies open, slamming against the wall and cracking. She flinches.
/s/
/top/
Clamping her hands over her ears reduces the roar of thunder to a soothing buzz, but she needs her fingers. Better to deal with the noise and get her fix—then everything will be better. Then she can
/do/
/n’tdon’tdon’/
/t/
“Shut up!” She scrapes the blade across the table, across the other scars already left in the faded plastic, and assembles the powder into a reasonable line. The straw is bent, but good enough. “Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not even real!”
/Iwaswas/
/ssst/
/canbewas/
/op/
There isn’t any pretty way to snort a memory, and she doesn’t try, just sniffs with a mighty intake of air. The fine particles, glittering in another flash from the sky, disappear up her nose. She sighs as the rush hits her.
/ohhhhhh/
/no/
/oh/
It tastes like—
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE: A BOARDWALK IN THE SUN
OUR HEROINE, TANNED AND FRECKLED, HER HAIR SUN-STREAKED AND WET, TANGLED WITH SEA SALT, IS LAUGHING. AN OLDER MAN, HER FATHER, HANDS HER A TOWEL. SHE LOOPS IT AROUND HER NECK.
SEAGULLS ARE CAWING OVERHEAD.
HER FATHER SAYS SOMETHING TO HER THAT WE CANNOT HEAR. SHE GRINS AND POKES HIM IN THE SIDE, THEN RUNS AWAY, SAND CASCADING AWAY FROM HER SWIFT FEET.
HE SHAKES HIS HEAD, SMILING.
THE BEACH IS FULL OF HAPPY VACATIONERS, FAMILIES WHO ARE DIGGING IN THE SAND, SUNBATHING, AND
/lies/
ICE CREAM SANDWICHES. A LITTLE GIRL PILES SAND AND SHAPES IT, CAREFULLY PUTTING ON THE SHELLS THAT SHE HAS FOUND, CLAM SHELLS, CONCH SHELLS, SWIRLY WHIRLY TWISTY WHISTY PRETTY PRETTY PRETTY
/worsetha/
/nlies/
SHELLS AND SUN AND A SUN AND A SUN DRIPPING DOWN INTO THE SEA SO THAT THE STEAM RISES, SMELLING LIKE HAPPY AND
AND OUR HEROINE HAS FOUND
/noteven/
/goodlies/
NO NO NO
SHE HAS FOUND
A BOY
BEAUTIFUL AND SWEET AND LOVING AND HE SMELLS WONDERFUL, LIKE
“Cotton candy,” she whispers. Her face is wet, and for a moment she thinks that she is crying, but then another drop of water falls onto her forehead. She touches it, and looks up to see the leaky ceiling.
/itwasn’treal/
“I know.”
/anditshould/
/n’tbe/
/worstkindofl/
/ies/
/theones/
/youbelieveev/
/enwheny/
/ouknowthey’relies/
She gets up and closes the window, tracing the broken glass as she locks it. “You’re not real either.”
/but/
/Iwas/
/IWAS/
/andyou/
“Shut up!” The lightning has stopped, the clouds are gone, but the sky is the color of liver. She shivers as she realizes that her hair is truly soaked from the rain. The back of her shirt is wet, sticking to her chilled skin like a piece of ice.
/t/
/he/
/y’re/
/comi/
/ng/
The lights flicker and go out. She pulls her hair into a pony-tail, using the rubber band she pretends not to know wasn’t on her wrist a moment ago. “I don’t want to die.”
/Ididn’t/
/eitherbutI/
/didanyway/
“Tell me again how it happened.” The wind picks up. Reaching out, she finds that the windows have disappeared. She slides down the wall and sits cross-legged on the floor. “Please.”
/no/
“Please.”
/it’sg/
/ettingt/
/oo/
/hard/
/erto/
/talkinyour/
/langue/
/ge/
“Try?” She is afraid. The whale is never unsure, never admits to a fault. The whale is too big, too absolutely and irrevocably itself, for it to hesitate.
/goin/
/gtob/
/eforgotten/
She curls her fingers against each other. “I’ll hold on as long as I can. I promise.”
/Imus/
/tad/
/mitI’mafraidtoo/
/you are/
/theonly/
“I can barely hear you.” The water evaporates in a whoosh as the wood around her splinters apart. She grabs a piece of it and focuses on its smell, the way it scratches and raises red lines on her skin. “Can’t you speak—” She doesn’t know whether the whale speaks too slow or too fast, too softly or too loud, and doesn’t know what she needs to say to make it better. They can only speak in bits and pieces, each letter pulled out of quicksand. “Can’t you speak more clearly?” The wood slips from her grasp and disappears.
/s/
/orr/
/ysorrysorry/
/youshouldn’t/
/havel/
/etthemfeedyou/
/somanyprettylies/
“I know.”
/theypulled/
/thep/
/lugoutnowj/
/ustafewla/
/st/
/secondsof/
/elec/
/tricity/
/left/
She stares at the blank white that has replaced the room. The whale’s voice is faint enough now for her to know that it is whispering. “Is—is there nothing I can do?”
/nothingnot/
/hing/
That flat finality can’t be argued with. She smoothes her palms against her arms, shivering, searching for something, anything, to—ah. She smiles and pulls up the memory. “Then—then let’s watch the sea until. . . until we go to sleep.”
/y/
/e/
/. . ./
/s/
The white wavers, shakes, and turns aquamarine. She smiles as the waves crash around them, the room filling with the dirty smell of salt. It’s as real as the whale’s memory can make it. “Is it good?”
/g/
/go/
/g/
/ye/
/s/
/th/
/a/
/nky/
/ou/
She closes her eyes. She hopes that someone else can remember the whale, that someone else can make this ocean. It is a good place. The kind of memory she wishes she had held more of in her—
ACT ONE, SCENE TWO:
OUR HEROINE LEANS OVER TO HER LOVE AND
“No!” She shakes her head and concentrates. The whale is gone, but she remembers the feel of it, the unshakable reality of the whale even though so much time had passed since it had truly been a real whale. “I want to see.” Her legs turn clear; her hands float away. She ignores it; she doesn’t need them. She grits the teeth that are not there, were never there, and focuses again, looking for the one scrap of truth that she knows must be there. The wind rises in her ears, wailing, plunging her into what must be an end and she summons up one last memory. It floats up and
. . .
The tide goes out.
A waterfall of low notes echoes against the water like they belong there, and if they were not her whale’s than they should have been.
She takes the breath she’s never needed.
And then
/s/
/top/
Clamping her hands over her ears reduces the roar of thunder to a soothing buzz, but she needs her fingers. Better to deal with the noise and get her fix—then everything will be better. Then she can
/do/
/n’tdon’tdon’/
/t/
“Shut up!” She scrapes the blade across the table, across the other scars already left in the faded plastic, and assembles the powder into a reasonable line. The straw is bent, but good enough. “Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not even real!”
/Iwaswas/
/ssst/
/canbewas/
/op/
There isn’t any pretty way to snort a memory, and she doesn’t try, just sniffs with a mighty intake of air. The fine particles, glittering in another flash from the sky, disappear up her nose. She sighs as the rush hits her.
/ohhhhhh/
/no/
/oh/
It tastes like—
ACT ONE, SCENE ONE: A BOARDWALK IN THE SUN
OUR HEROINE, TANNED AND FRECKLED, HER HAIR SUN-STREAKED AND WET, TANGLED WITH SEA SALT, IS LAUGHING. AN OLDER MAN, HER FATHER, HANDS HER A TOWEL. SHE LOOPS IT AROUND HER NECK.
SEAGULLS ARE CAWING OVERHEAD.
HER FATHER SAYS SOMETHING TO HER THAT WE CANNOT HEAR. SHE GRINS AND POKES HIM IN THE SIDE, THEN RUNS AWAY, SAND CASCADING AWAY FROM HER SWIFT FEET.
HE SHAKES HIS HEAD, SMILING.
THE BEACH IS FULL OF HAPPY VACATIONERS, FAMILIES WHO ARE DIGGING IN THE SAND, SUNBATHING, AND
/lies/
ICE CREAM SANDWICHES. A LITTLE GIRL PILES SAND AND SHAPES IT, CAREFULLY PUTTING ON THE SHELLS THAT SHE HAS FOUND, CLAM SHELLS, CONCH SHELLS, SWIRLY WHIRLY TWISTY WHISTY PRETTY PRETTY PRETTY
/worsetha/
/nlies/
SHELLS AND SUN AND A SUN AND A SUN DRIPPING DOWN INTO THE SEA SO THAT THE STEAM RISES, SMELLING LIKE HAPPY AND
AND OUR HEROINE HAS FOUND
/noteven/
/goodlies/
NO NO NO
SHE HAS FOUND
A BOY
BEAUTIFUL AND SWEET AND LOVING AND HE SMELLS WONDERFUL, LIKE
“Cotton candy,” she whispers. Her face is wet, and for a moment she thinks that she is crying, but then another drop of water falls onto her forehead. She touches it, and looks up to see the leaky ceiling.
/itwasn’treal/
“I know.”
/anditshould/
/n’tbe/
/worstkindofl/
/ies/
/theones/
/youbelieveev/
/enwheny/
/ouknowthey’relies/
She gets up and closes the window, tracing the broken glass as she locks it. “You’re not real either.”
/but/
/Iwas/
/IWAS/
/andyou/
“Shut up!” The lightning has stopped, the clouds are gone, but the sky is the color of liver. She shivers as she realizes that her hair is truly soaked from the rain. The back of her shirt is wet, sticking to her chilled skin like a piece of ice.
/t/
/he/
/y’re/
/comi/
/ng/
The lights flicker and go out. She pulls her hair into a pony-tail, using the rubber band she pretends not to know wasn’t on her wrist a moment ago. “I don’t want to die.”
/Ididn’t/
/eitherbutI/
/didanyway/
“Tell me again how it happened.” The wind picks up. Reaching out, she finds that the windows have disappeared. She slides down the wall and sits cross-legged on the floor. “Please.”
/no/
“Please.”
/it’sg/
/ettingt/
/oo/
/hard/
/erto/
/talkinyour/
/langue/
/ge/
“Try?” She is afraid. The whale is never unsure, never admits to a fault. The whale is too big, too absolutely and irrevocably itself, for it to hesitate.
/goin/
/gtob/
/eforgotten/
She curls her fingers against each other. “I’ll hold on as long as I can. I promise.”
/Imus/
/tad/
/mitI’mafraidtoo/
/you are/
/theonly/
“I can barely hear you.” The water evaporates in a whoosh as the wood around her splinters apart. She grabs a piece of it and focuses on its smell, the way it scratches and raises red lines on her skin. “Can’t you speak—” She doesn’t know whether the whale speaks too slow or too fast, too softly or too loud, and doesn’t know what she needs to say to make it better. They can only speak in bits and pieces, each letter pulled out of quicksand. “Can’t you speak more clearly?” The wood slips from her grasp and disappears.
/s/
/orr/
/ysorrysorry/
/youshouldn’t/
/havel/
/etthemfeedyou/
/somanyprettylies/
“I know.”
/theypulled/
/thep/
/lugoutnowj/
/ustafewla/
/st/
/secondsof/
/elec/
/tricity/
/left/
She stares at the blank white that has replaced the room. The whale’s voice is faint enough now for her to know that it is whispering. “Is—is there nothing I can do?”
/nothingnot/
/hing/
That flat finality can’t be argued with. She smoothes her palms against her arms, shivering, searching for something, anything, to—ah. She smiles and pulls up the memory. “Then—then let’s watch the sea until. . . until we go to sleep.”
/y/
/e/
/. . ./
/s/
The white wavers, shakes, and turns aquamarine. She smiles as the waves crash around them, the room filling with the dirty smell of salt. It’s as real as the whale’s memory can make it. “Is it good?”
/g/
/go/
/g/
/ye/
/s/
/th/
/a/
/nky/
/ou/
She closes her eyes. She hopes that someone else can remember the whale, that someone else can make this ocean. It is a good place. The kind of memory she wishes she had held more of in her—
ACT ONE, SCENE TWO:
OUR HEROINE LEANS OVER TO HER LOVE AND
“No!” She shakes her head and concentrates. The whale is gone, but she remembers the feel of it, the unshakable reality of the whale even though so much time had passed since it had truly been a real whale. “I want to see.” Her legs turn clear; her hands float away. She ignores it; she doesn’t need them. She grits the teeth that are not there, were never there, and focuses again, looking for the one scrap of truth that she knows must be there. The wind rises in her ears, wailing, plunging her into what must be an end and she summons up one last memory. It floats up and
. . .
The tide goes out.
A waterfall of low notes echoes against the water like they belong there, and if they were not her whale’s than they should have been.
She takes the breath she’s never needed.
And then
Just a heads-up--
I should not write things at 2 in the morning. The story that I'm posting next is weird. And it is not put together properly yet. But I'm too tired to fix it at the moment. But I am also incapable of not showing off, and I kinda like it? I think? Yes, I do. It is unique, at least. Mind you, it also started as something completely different, which is why it's disjointed.
*sing-song tone* I stilllll liiiiiiiike itttttt!
*sing-song tone* I stilllll liiiiiiiike itttttt!
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Ellipses
Ellipses
She wakes up in the kitchen, a lemon in one hand, zester in the other. Naked fruit is scattered across the counter. A stray orange floats in the sink, a buoy amongst shipwrecked dishes. Bewildered, she sets down her burden and tastes her fingers. Sugar, cinnamon. Citrus. And rum?
Yanking open the oven, she stares at the cakes inside. They belong to one of her favorite recipes, a decadent pile of rum-soaked layers and butter-cream frosting. She eases them out, gripping with scorched potholders. Perfect.
The cooling rack is ready. She flips the cakes onto it, yawning when she sees the early AM blinking on the clock. This is the special-occasion-only dessert; it takes two hours to assemble, even after it’s been baked. She’ll finish later.
She wonders what it’s for.
. . .
She wakes up in her bedroom, forehead pressed against the door, hand on the knob. Letting go, she winces at the cramps in her fingers. As she returns to bed, she notices a red mark on her head from leaning. She touches it, makes a face, and slips back into bed. He moves to make room. She sips the jasmine tea on her nightstand; it is some time before she falls asleep again.
. . .
She wakes up in a coffee shop, sputtering as her drink goes down the wrong way. It spills into her lap, staining her red skirt. The man sitting across from her jumps up to help, blotting the liquid with napkins. She stares at his curly black hair, too confused to make any effort to help. He finishes with a rueful smile, and takes her cup for a re-fill.
Sticking a finger into the half-eaten pastry at her place, she licks the filling. Chocolate mousse. The crust is dry, flaking across the tablecloth and littering the front of her shirt. She brushes at the crumbs with a shaking hand. She has no idea who this man is.
Their wedding rings match.
. . .
She wakes up in the backyard, her back sore and her knees throbbing. A shovel lies nearby, its handle broken, the blade smeared with red mud. She tastes iron.
Pulling her knees to her chest, she rocks and tries to ignore the half-filled hole next to her, the tip of a shoe poking out of the soil.
She wakes up in the kitchen, a lemon in one hand, zester in the other. Naked fruit is scattered across the counter. A stray orange floats in the sink, a buoy amongst shipwrecked dishes. Bewildered, she sets down her burden and tastes her fingers. Sugar, cinnamon. Citrus. And rum?
Yanking open the oven, she stares at the cakes inside. They belong to one of her favorite recipes, a decadent pile of rum-soaked layers and butter-cream frosting. She eases them out, gripping with scorched potholders. Perfect.
The cooling rack is ready. She flips the cakes onto it, yawning when she sees the early AM blinking on the clock. This is the special-occasion-only dessert; it takes two hours to assemble, even after it’s been baked. She’ll finish later.
She wonders what it’s for.
. . .
She wakes up in her bedroom, forehead pressed against the door, hand on the knob. Letting go, she winces at the cramps in her fingers. As she returns to bed, she notices a red mark on her head from leaning. She touches it, makes a face, and slips back into bed. He moves to make room. She sips the jasmine tea on her nightstand; it is some time before she falls asleep again.
. . .
She wakes up in a coffee shop, sputtering as her drink goes down the wrong way. It spills into her lap, staining her red skirt. The man sitting across from her jumps up to help, blotting the liquid with napkins. She stares at his curly black hair, too confused to make any effort to help. He finishes with a rueful smile, and takes her cup for a re-fill.
Sticking a finger into the half-eaten pastry at her place, she licks the filling. Chocolate mousse. The crust is dry, flaking across the tablecloth and littering the front of her shirt. She brushes at the crumbs with a shaking hand. She has no idea who this man is.
Their wedding rings match.
. . .
She wakes up in the backyard, her back sore and her knees throbbing. A shovel lies nearby, its handle broken, the blade smeared with red mud. She tastes iron.
Pulling her knees to her chest, she rocks and tries to ignore the half-filled hole next to her, the tip of a shoe poking out of the soil.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Dog Lullabies
Three little wolves
outside my window,
one white,
one red,
one black.
They say Bow-wow, Bow-wow,
and dig holes in the gerbera daisies.
Or maybe there is only one little dog,
that changes from white to red to black,
and sometimes not even a dog at all,
but a green shoot with human hands,
or an overgrown baby
pushing its snub-nose face
at the glass, saying
ma, ma, ma-ma-ma
as I shake my head
(no no no)
and slam the curtains.
- - -
I cannot get the little white dog
and the little black dog
out of my house.
They are up-turning my tables
and rooting in my notebooks
and spilling through my study
which in another house would be the nursery
(But there is no baby,
no baby,
never a baby.)
The little black dog
and the little white dog
crouch on my shoulders,
licking my face with their milky tongues.
They say Arf-arf.
They say Arf-arf, Arf-arf.
When I shake my head to dislodge them,
they fall like drops of water on a stove,
and I say no no no.
- - -
Somebody’s car hit the little red dog.
I find it lying outside my window.
The little white dog and the little black dog
bump at the window from inside;
Woof-woof, they say, Woof-woof.
I stoop and stroke the curled tail of the baby—
no, not the baby, there is no baby,
there was never a baby,
I have no baby—
stroke the little red dog’s curled tail.
Its mouth gapes with
a frothy dandelion,
seeds flooding its mouth
with a lacteous gush.
I hear the little black dog
and the little white dog keening.
I look at the window
and tangled in the curtains--
there is no baby,
there can’t be a baby,
I never wanted the baby,
I have no baby,
no baby, no, baby, no--
its chubby palms flatten against the pane,
blue veins merging with the glass.
outside my window,
one white,
one red,
one black.
They say Bow-wow, Bow-wow,
and dig holes in the gerbera daisies.
Or maybe there is only one little dog,
that changes from white to red to black,
and sometimes not even a dog at all,
but a green shoot with human hands,
or an overgrown baby
pushing its snub-nose face
at the glass, saying
ma, ma, ma-ma-ma
as I shake my head
(no no no)
and slam the curtains.
- - -
I cannot get the little white dog
and the little black dog
out of my house.
They are up-turning my tables
and rooting in my notebooks
and spilling through my study
which in another house would be the nursery
(But there is no baby,
no baby,
never a baby.)
The little black dog
and the little white dog
crouch on my shoulders,
licking my face with their milky tongues.
They say Arf-arf.
They say Arf-arf, Arf-arf.
When I shake my head to dislodge them,
they fall like drops of water on a stove,
and I say no no no.
- - -
Somebody’s car hit the little red dog.
I find it lying outside my window.
The little white dog and the little black dog
bump at the window from inside;
Woof-woof, they say, Woof-woof.
I stoop and stroke the curled tail of the baby—
no, not the baby, there is no baby,
there was never a baby,
I have no baby—
stroke the little red dog’s curled tail.
Its mouth gapes with
a frothy dandelion,
seeds flooding its mouth
with a lacteous gush.
I hear the little black dog
and the little white dog keening.
I look at the window
and tangled in the curtains--
there is no baby,
there can’t be a baby,
I never wanted the baby,
I have no baby,
no baby, no, baby, no--
its chubby palms flatten against the pane,
blue veins merging with the glass.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Eye for an Eye
Ah, yes, it is no problem for asking! You know, many people, they are looking at the different colors of my skin, and they asking themselves “what is this?” and “is he being sick?” and they are just staring and staring and making me to be very uncomfortable, and I would rather they are to be just asking.
My right arm, she is coming from Greece. I am traveling there when I am being much, much younger—I am not being ashamed to say that I am being very old now!—and I am being in the country, minding my own company, when I am meeting a farmer. And I am walking in his field, and he is taking his, ah, pitchfork, and he is just stabbing me with it, and he is putting terrible holes into my arm. And of course I am being very put-out, but I am not speaking Greek, and he is waving his pitchfork at me again, so I am to be just leaving with my poor arm full of the holes, and of course I am losing him. So I am going back to the farmer’s house when he is sleeping, and I am seeing that he is having a wife, very strong of limb, and so I am taking her arm as a fair replacement, you see? She has been a good arm for me all these years, even better than my own arm was being, and I am being sure that this farmer is being kinder to innocent strangers now! He was to be learning his lesson. And perhaps they were not being a good couple, because they were not sleeping in the same bed, so that he is not hearing when I am slitting her throat. Perhaps she was being of the snorer, ha-ha!
No, no, I am not hearing this! How can you be being ready to go already? The night is being young—though I am not being so, ha-ha!—the bar is being, ah, “open,” and you are wanting to know more of my many, many history. I am being able to tell this. So! Of course you can be seeing that this is my very own left arm, but the hand is being from this sweet little boy who was being so unlucky as to have been being in a car accident with myself, terrible, ah, crash-up. This is being in the year—oh, I am forgetting, but many, many years ago. I am thinking the car, she was a Model T? Not so very long ago, really—not when you are an, ah, “old-fogey” like myself, ha-ha!—but how quickly one forgets even so. But the poor sweet boy is being killed and I am being lost of a hand, and his are being so smooth, so soft—feel, feel!—and I am thinking that it is, ah, being a lucky fate for me that he will no longer to be using him for himself, so I am being replacing my poor crushed one. He, too, has served me very, very well, and I am being very careful with him, with the gloves, and the lotion, and the virgin’s blood, all to be keeping him as sweet as his previous owner.
Another drink! I am insisting. Please, it will be being such a comfort to a poor old man like myself, if you were to be staying just a little longer. Alas, it is no longer being a custom for the young to be giving respect for their elders, and it is getting more and more difficult for me to be getting around. These legs are being from a young man—this is being a very long story, and I am waiting for my drink before I am telling it, but I will be saying that he should not have been shooting his arrows into the bushes, and I was giving him back to his family only a week later, and I was being very generous and allowing him to live—but they are being now also old with me.
And my poor eyes, they are going as well! I should be being replacing them soon, do you think? Perhaps I should be looking for the blue eyes; I am thinking that they are going with my skin color, ha-ha!
It is being too bad that yours are brown. That would be being so convenient! Ah well.
My right arm, she is coming from Greece. I am traveling there when I am being much, much younger—I am not being ashamed to say that I am being very old now!—and I am being in the country, minding my own company, when I am meeting a farmer. And I am walking in his field, and he is taking his, ah, pitchfork, and he is just stabbing me with it, and he is putting terrible holes into my arm. And of course I am being very put-out, but I am not speaking Greek, and he is waving his pitchfork at me again, so I am to be just leaving with my poor arm full of the holes, and of course I am losing him. So I am going back to the farmer’s house when he is sleeping, and I am seeing that he is having a wife, very strong of limb, and so I am taking her arm as a fair replacement, you see? She has been a good arm for me all these years, even better than my own arm was being, and I am being sure that this farmer is being kinder to innocent strangers now! He was to be learning his lesson. And perhaps they were not being a good couple, because they were not sleeping in the same bed, so that he is not hearing when I am slitting her throat. Perhaps she was being of the snorer, ha-ha!
No, no, I am not hearing this! How can you be being ready to go already? The night is being young—though I am not being so, ha-ha!—the bar is being, ah, “open,” and you are wanting to know more of my many, many history. I am being able to tell this. So! Of course you can be seeing that this is my very own left arm, but the hand is being from this sweet little boy who was being so unlucky as to have been being in a car accident with myself, terrible, ah, crash-up. This is being in the year—oh, I am forgetting, but many, many years ago. I am thinking the car, she was a Model T? Not so very long ago, really—not when you are an, ah, “old-fogey” like myself, ha-ha!—but how quickly one forgets even so. But the poor sweet boy is being killed and I am being lost of a hand, and his are being so smooth, so soft—feel, feel!—and I am thinking that it is, ah, being a lucky fate for me that he will no longer to be using him for himself, so I am being replacing my poor crushed one. He, too, has served me very, very well, and I am being very careful with him, with the gloves, and the lotion, and the virgin’s blood, all to be keeping him as sweet as his previous owner.
Another drink! I am insisting. Please, it will be being such a comfort to a poor old man like myself, if you were to be staying just a little longer. Alas, it is no longer being a custom for the young to be giving respect for their elders, and it is getting more and more difficult for me to be getting around. These legs are being from a young man—this is being a very long story, and I am waiting for my drink before I am telling it, but I will be saying that he should not have been shooting his arrows into the bushes, and I was giving him back to his family only a week later, and I was being very generous and allowing him to live—but they are being now also old with me.
And my poor eyes, they are going as well! I should be being replacing them soon, do you think? Perhaps I should be looking for the blue eyes; I am thinking that they are going with my skin color, ha-ha!
It is being too bad that yours are brown. That would be being so convenient! Ah well.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Dusk
Navy clouds dragged through the sky,
maples honeycombed against the horizon.
It is a cold moon
that shines into the hollow in the grass,
but there is no body heat left to steal.
Two sets of footprints,
imprinted in crushed soybeans,
lead away from the hollow.
They point in opposite directions.
maples honeycombed against the horizon.
It is a cold moon
that shines into the hollow in the grass,
but there is no body heat left to steal.
Two sets of footprints,
imprinted in crushed soybeans,
lead away from the hollow.
They point in opposite directions.
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