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Once, a child in the park, too well hidden at dusk, nobody could find you. And you peeked into that night and the stitching of stars up in their constellations.
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My shoulders were broad and you’d say: "Look at the shoulders on him…" to the little man who fit my blazers and the men that we’d meet on the sidewalk, who were from the office, or who fixed our fence; even Uncle Johnny, and all of Mom’s friends: you’d call me “Buckshot,” and smile, admiring something in me not subject to so much—interpretation— a certain thing, a father and son with his broad shoulders.
And when, for me, it wasn’t true anymore it still was for you, or I'd like to remember (now I can see…) that broadness across my shoulders and how I would stand there, admired and speechless. Who knew
of my days, in the mirror, shaving saying to myself: “Where did you go?" and rubbing my face… Because, of course, they had left me in those days of the shrunken shoulders...
The broad shoulders are still here. You give them to me, tonight, to admire and to stand speechless.
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He was speechless, meaty-faced and boar-browed. She told him everything, and he'd listen, speechless
She told him everything about her bossy handsome ambitious husband and her thoughtful lover and her twins who liked trampolines too much and books too little She told him about how their work made her feel like a man (and she liked it) And he was speechless
She relied on his nods and knowing glances and, for once, no speeches no guilt just listening
But at night she'd go home to her bossy handsome ambitious husband and bouncy twins
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One big problem (now) gaping --discontinuity-- (of intent) inflicted by a pre-emptive amputation Taenia soliumTaenia saginataDiphyllobothrium4 latum
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One big problem (now) gaping, the --discontinuity-- (of intent) inflicted by a pre-emptive passing (grrunnnttt-grrrrunt...kerplunk) of the thread (i.e.: Taenia solium or saginata or Diphyllobothrium4 latum) etc. etc. a.k.a.: whorl(dp)lay etc. etc. Tah-Wham, Tah-Wham etc. etc. you never know with worms etc. etc. etc. Only the unwashed! --by ingesting eggs shed liable to re-infect(ion)
I wuh-wuh-want to tell you a je-je-joke.
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The cat, looking up from her dish, licked her whiskers and stared up at his belly as if something in there had moved.
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It was deja vu for both of them and for a moment it was as if...as if one might need a new language to express the thoughts that played about the boundaries limning the shifting contours of interspecies communication
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The cat, on the other hand, watched carefully the things (invisible to us) that float just above our right shoulders....
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Once held together by a thick black clip the thread-script lay, played out, in two piles, or better: one pile, one heap like a mackeral glass-eyed and unlikeable--
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The moment passed away, unbelievable, until another:
there were, according to his calculations, over two billion pigeons in the forest,
nesting, two perfect white eggs becoming fat squabs and the limbs falling every night when the parents returned and returned.
His hogs would fatten on the absurd carnage:
Forty miles of forest shorn of all but the largest branches, filling with excreta and little ones, fallen from their nests.
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At any rate, he didn't have any hogs or even a forest. Absurd carnage, maybe...
"One needs to clear ones mind," he said into the fridge and stood there, illuminated, on Tuesday morning. No Soda water either, just two eggs, as usual.
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With only one story left: the parasite-- Only one language: metamorphology-- The relation now the thing in itself.
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"Rebecca was almost six and a very fast runner. Most of her speed could be attributed to the get-away. Just when you thought she was busy throwing rocks, or when it seemed likely that you might spend at a moment talking to a friend about real-estate, just then, she would get four or five steps towards some vanishing point: over a crest, towards the pond with the quacking ducks; whatever it was, she would be gone.
Inevitably, we chase after them. And during that run, which always starts at a laughing gait (becoming a sprint when we realize how fast her little legs speed along her chubbiness), we start to live in a new world where she is lost and where, cresting the hill, there is nothing, only this racing heart, the horrible trees, the wind and the seagulls, and the impossible decision of which wrong way to continue our run."
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He filled up his huge enamel tub, slowly, to the brim.
Falling water and a thickening steam contain him and his restlessness. Islands stir the surface.
He drowns his knee and all inhabitants, who'd lived their silent, secret lives atop a little fold of skin and closes his eyes to sink, unfathomed, into Asia:
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The rotting teeth of Halong Bay are Dragon's lapped by swelling seas; Chinese junks and dories tongue the grottoes mindlessly; the world plays a sustained cadence to jet-hollowed sky: High noon, and you cannot arise or go below or any further-- You slip away, a smallish wake excites the glare to diamonds: Asia everywhere; and here your tongue explores the inlets of a broken tooth, the sweetness of decay.
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He pops back, breathless, to the surface of his own catastrophe: an aching tooth, the draining tub, the mirror, and every destination thwarted by his demand for nothing more than this.
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All baths come to an end, somewhere in the mirror. A crow's rubato triplet frames a diamond silence outside, and then it all will wait--to mean something to you, or someone else--who sees more than himself.
The well worn path, the exposed roots hard and tight to the earth.
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It would seem, that at great cost to his personal welfare, he had stared too long into that hollow sky. He had not taken into account the possibility that what he saw (the unlikely beech, the pitchblack well, the sentient bough through troubled glass, the busy fly, a quiet sun, the waterlily moon, a morning star) were merely artifacts of his eyes whose spidered blood vessels and feeble retinas sickened his mind which continued to mistake the human for the alien.
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...so, I say to the guy: "Where's my Lemon Tart?", and then this goon who's been standing there watching clobbers me with a hammer...Ka-boom!...and I'm telling you 'Out-Go-The-Lights' baby, it's overs-ville, I'm splatter."
The impressively long segement of tapeworm recoils back into his jar and is carried away from the microphone to the supportive applause of the Fall gathering of the Council for Aboriginal Relations.
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A man (NOT REALLY!) goes to the doctor (UNLIKELY). He says "Doctor, I am always so hungry, what's wrong with me".(HOW CAN YOU BE SO HUNGRY WHEN YOU'RE SO FULL OF SHIT?) After a quick examination the Doctor says to the man "You have a tapeworm--Come back in a week and bring me a lemon and cherry tart".(FLASHBACK TO THE ACCIDENT, IT'S NOT EVEN FUNNY AND YET HERE WE ARE PLOWING ACROSS THE FRONT LAWN) The man (HE'S NOT A MAN!) comes back in a week with the tarts (NO TARTS ANYMORE!), the Doctor tells him to spread his legs and puts the tarts in between along with a hammer(IN ITS VELVET GLOVE!).
A head (CAN IT BE SAID?) pops out of mans rear-end (THE ESCHA-ESCHA-ESCHA-SCATALOGICAL) and eats the tarts, glances at the hammer, and vanishes. (THE CRUCIAL TURN...THE VANISHING....)
The doctor tells the man to come back in a week with two more tarts (TRUST ME, I'M A DOCTOR ETC.) He comes back in a week with the tarts, lies (ALWAYS LYING!) on the table and spreads his (HAIRY?)legs, the doctor positions the tarts and the hammer and sure enough, the worm comes (SLIDES, CRAWLS, THINK D.H. LAWRENCE-esque) out, spies the tarts, eats them up (TOOTHLESS!), glances at the hammer (EYELESS!) and disappears (LIMITLESS!) into darkness (DARKNESS!). The doctor says to the patient: "One more week sir. Come back next week with the tarts and you will be cured." (BUT, IT'S NOT TRUE! THERE IS NO CURE! ONLY DARKNESS!)
There are some lingering (BIOGRAPHICAL) issues.
Cherry Tart = Life. (HA! IN THIS TWILIGHT?) Lemon Tart = TA-WHAM (a.k.a. Death), or Resurrection("Let. Me. Up.")
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Oddly enough, when I was 8 or 9, I ate a cherry tart and a lemon tart at the 80th birthday party of a friend of my grandparents.
I became violently ill afterwards. To this day, I refuse to eat cherry and lemon pie. Although I love lemon bars and cherry ice cream.
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The sea sorting the shale over the eons... Hanging onto the sheer cliff of the present, one false move, one move at all, your
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With that carelessness he typically mistook for incipient passion, he swept the typescript off the kitchen table with a broad sweep of his arm and collapsed onto his chair, the collapse was impressive enough to slop most of his cold coffee from the cup into a mercurial puddle that immediately began an almost organic search for the edge of the table. What should have been a breath-taking moment of existential release, a grasping for the newly opened realm of desperation, a promising ground for the langourous delicacies of self-laceration was interrupted by the fibonacci declensions of an edge gone over--drip, drop, drip-drop, dripdropdrip, dripdripdripdripdrip until a new world, fully formed and beckoning, would have to include a pee-break.
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With a lovelessness never confused with boredom, she assembled her chess pieces and made a perfect line - her own little army, ready for a mission - then stood up crisply from the table and fainted. She was inside a TV! Lost in the grey snow. The crack of her head hitting the table was an abstract thing, pure and painless--another thing getting lost with her in the hissing greylight.
What blood there was splattered over the waiting army, with one drop landing in her startled coffee cup. The drop began to dissipate following the strict laws of a science where apprehension taunts comprehension, the pattern lingering and finally some would say living longer the she did, dead as she was on the floor; both beginning to cool, nevertheless, in their respective infinities.
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"Returning (NEVER FURTHER) from the hill (NEVER MORE THAN THAT, VISIBLE FROM THE 5TH FLOOR WINDOW OF THE GATINEAU PSYCH WARD) he'd climbed (BUT STOPPED TO NOTE THE POLISHED ROOTS), on the top of which, overlooking the pines, the valley (CROSSED AND RECROSSED FOR NOTHING), the budding beechs (THE TREMBLING WINTER LEAF); returning along a path, a trail once cut through the hills hundreds of years ago by settlers (FULL OF THE DEAD, THE MIDDENS, THE PILED STONES), maybe loggers, the Blanchet Trail (see((I CANNOT SEE-I CANNOT SEE-JUST THE WORDS FOR IT)), there is where old Blanchet'd planted fruits: pears, apples, peachs)((THERE IS ONE GNARLED PERVERTED TREE WHOSE BUDS BLOOM RANCID IN WINTER)); along a trail like this (AND WHAT TRAIL IS NOT THIS TRAIL?), a man (A NOTION) in his later years saw a bag (THIS IS NOT REAL). It was just after the turtles, the turtles courting (HA! LYING ON A LOG, THEN FLOPPING IN UNTIL ONLY A LAST RIPPLE TOUCHED THE SHORE WHERE I STOOD IN THE HUSHING WIND) in the pond, it was, of course (TO ASSURE AND COMFORT WITH THE CASUAL), Spring. The bag was left behind. Surely left behind as there was nobody but the (NOTIONAL) man in the vicinity: maybe a woodpecker, a warbler of some sort, or an inevitable indiscernable crow (I HAVE MENTIONED THE CROW, THE RUBATO TRIPLETS, THE TOTEMIC ASPECT OF THE THING, THE CRY, THE CALL TO COME HOME). There may have been a voice, he may have heard a voice in the woods, not a scream (THIS IS LUDICROUS AND MERELY FIGURED), barely a complaint, maybe only a voice (HAVE YOU HEARD THE ONE ABOUT TH TAPEWORM?), it might have been a voice (IT WAS) but he wasn't sure (HE WAS) until he saw the bag on the path (A BAG ON THE PATH IN THE MIND, THE PATH BACK FROM THE RIVER).
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You come back. Get in the car. You go home. Certainly. You go home. Climb the stairs. Turn the key. Always the same angle of light. Always the same, you sit and watch. And it will not amount, cannot amount to more than life's late afternoon: still life, but not living.
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Four racing cars, a Grand Piano tuned to the key of entropy, plexiglass screwed over the windows and a thick new lock on the door of his shack,
where he tried to live as if something still mattered.
A 1/4 inch ratchet set inside the Lancia, the Alfa with two little puddles of rain in the footwells.
When he sat at the piano, back to the sun that played over the pasture, the lone spruce thrummed and far away you could see the big river flicker and shine.
Then, it was the first snow of the year."
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On your first solo, you had six matches on that island all to yourself (you were afraid of the bears on the mainland).
You tried to wait out the day, then the night; you wanted the sun to go down, to sleep for the morning that never came. Only moonrise.
You should have busied yourself, collecting wood and birch bark to kindle a fire. Instead, you're awake to the sound of the water, to the damp footfall, to the moonlight.
i certainly didn't post it - i kept getting 'insufficient memory for this operation'.
oh well.
it was fun dancing between shadows at moonlight, deerpark27. if you decide to let me have copies my contributions to the worldplay thread, i'd appreciate it. i know, i know, my bad for not saving them on my own. i had faith that you wouldn't delete your own work, though, so i trusted that my part would be there without me having to back it up. like i said, my bad. email me through the forum.
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I saw that hole in France. Walking through the dusty old Linden trees on that otherworldly brown flint, that obsidian, whatever it was - the rocks were all so different.
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