But to Francis, “your tail curled in mutton milk, you weren’t a savior!” Oh indeed, the tendencies that followed his ridiculous tirade, I could barely stand with these tremors reverberating through my body. I sat down, clutching my sides, tears running from my eyes, I tried to focus in. It blurred around me, I couldn’t help it; couldn’t you feel the tension dispersing? Rushing from the scene in fragments, these were fragments, and I was the centrifugally charged orb. You can’t trace these things: our feelings sliding by like stars in hyperspace, while we slip into the river . . . its surface holding an undertone of current as we backstroke through it, like windmills on a fluid highway. [We are flotation devices strung together, bobbing on the wake.] George hit a rock and Mary, our caboose, she broke loose. We watched her glide down an off-shooting stream, us waving good-byes and gargling mineral water, her wide-eyed and terrified.
The waterfall was our downfall, our five hundred foot freefall. I watched Francis the entire way down. I can barely remember hitting the water, only the sound of splintering bone as the surface broke; it was gravity that pushed me through. (Am I one with it? Are we mutually exclusive? I am the republic.) “Meet me at the crossroads, I’ll be the one with the cigarette in my mouth.” These were my last words to Francis. Our eyes had been aligned, I felt fire slip between us. I wonder if it was the water that we were afraid of all along. To be honest, it happened all too fast.
My parents told me I was the first colored in town to go to the all white school. I brought my crayons and painted a portrait on the back of the bus seat. The other children giggled. Purple was the primary color, I was always secondary, red was tertiary. The little girl sitting next to me flipped her hair. I watched it sail in the wind of our open window. It spurted yellow bronze, flowing in a slipstream like an ejaculation into a void. I was lost in it until we reached the plantation. Oh! the fields of Elysium, she led me through them by the hand. We lay on top of the wheat like a bed of gentle needles supporting us tall above the dirt. The sun glowed orange through closed eyelids and I could feel a smirk growing beneath my nose. It wasn’t the same by the time I opened my eyes, the light had sunk into the ground and the world was a shadow. You feel a whip across your back, I feel pain searing into my mind. Sometimes you can hear death, but only through mediums, never clearly, never unobstructed, unadulterated. I thought I heard it then. It might have been an illusion, you never can tell, but the world exploded and I was back in my locker between a damp towel and a sweaty jockstrap. “Please!” was my plea, but who could hear? I will rot, fine if I rot, I must rot, fine if I rot, fine, fine, I’ll rot.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
slapstick
“Smiling on smiling. Smile forward, land smiling. Smile a simile worth smiling. Smile like reduction of smile for smiling forward.”
- apocryphal Gertrude Stein
“It’s a long way back to Boston ,” said Hoover
“Boston Boston
“It’s running out behind us, man, weaving further away, flowing its sinewy course over that a ways, back to where it needs to be,” and Hoover looks into the rear view mirror while his chin droops down to his chest, “I didn’t ask it to stay, you know, stick-”
“Stick,” I said. “Stick.”
“Yeah, dude, stick.”
“Stick?” Mickey’s voice came from so close that it triggered a violent reaction taking a sharp breath and pushing myself towards the door, against the window, Mickey’s jack-in-the-box intrusion . . . he had his head leaned into the front compartment, between me and Hoover’s seats, his hair a complete mess of crawling tangles, a tightknitschoolofeels weaving around the coral, straining forward over the gear shift to squint through the windshield. “A stick?”
Hoover was laughing real loud and the car swerved a little, I think, and Mickey continued incredulously “Won’t believe it until you show me some evidence” and I’m gripping the handle on the door thinking about mortal danger and life and how I don’t want to say good night so soon and this thought echoes and echoes and my chest heaves more quickly until I realize that I’m shouting all this and Mickey has his hand on my shoulder and the police that line the narrow, massively wide road have my attention but Hoover assures me this isn’t the case.
“Calmly,” he commands, “Shut your eyes and think about the moon.” Into the calm the cold, picking up a pillowy holey piece of basaltic nothingness and give it the ol’ heft test and a jump that keeps carrying me higher, softly, slowly, the grey landscape stretches off, dotted with craters like the wax stamps of meteors and at the horizon the grey curves downwards in both directions like a gently sloped parabola underneath the vast expanse of darkness “The stars” says Hoover “Are everywhere” I believe him because that is all I can see is this massive littering of stars but Hoover doesn’t stop and his voice narrates my mission in the Rover
“Holy shit!” yelled Hoover and the car pitched suddenly and fishtailed briefly with a screech like an eagle on prey and my eyes burst wide open to the mess of the world while Mickey blathered on talking about total sensory deprivation tanks and stress relief and I felt life pumping in me, like a piston, like a piston, like a piston, that thing in the hood, just below the hood, I can see its metal glint and spraypainted plastic when I stare at the hood, see right through the translucent hood, my liver, my appendix, my brother had his removed by them cutting right into his flesh with a chainsaw, blood spurting, Dr. Benway looking real pleased, his face dripping red, his surgeon’s mask dangling around his neck, spittle between his teeth, a cold sore that was never mentioned nor even noticed until now like instant revelation and I realized that Burroughs had had me hoodwinked like a fairy.
“The literature in the back,” a thumb tossed over my shoulder, a tinge of trepidation ringing in my voice andsuddenlytime has slowed down
“Cool” said Mickey, “It’s cool, all safe, I have my arms wrapped around the precious” I lean back and sighed a sigh of relief, relief is what it not was, however, it was what I think it is . . . and my ribcage collapsed in on itself.
Things were less chaotic once the car was safely parked and we were back in Hoover’s kitchen, playing connect the dots with a scattering of breadcrumbs on the dinner table, last night’s mess, “It went haywire in that vehicle.”
“Yeah,” giggled Mickey, sipping hot soup, piss yellow glimmers with oil splotches and rising steam. He giggled again. The warm feeling of soup settling in his stomach was such a pleasant sensation. I watched his eyes dance in the candle light.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
"The It Reader:" An Analysis of a Poem Never Written
In this poem,
the poet is playing
w/the idea of fantasy,
his allusion (in the first
stanza) to a fish
being his toenail,
is, of course, absurd:
but it moves the reader
into his "box,"
for lack of a better word.
Once the reader
finds ITSELF
w/in the box,
it's only a matter of
time before the poet
tries to close
the lid,
He Simply Can't Help It.
It then becomes
the task of the reader,
to make sure that
it doesn't let ITSELF
become "trapped."
By the fourth stanza,
though,
the outlook is bleak.
The fifth stanza is the
reader's last hope.
If it finds ITSELF
still lost by
the sixth stanza,
it's simply "dead,"
for lack of a better
word.
For this reason,
the seventh stanza
can never be.
the poet is playing
w/the idea of fantasy,
his allusion (in the first
stanza) to a fish
being his toenail,
is, of course, absurd:
but it moves the reader
into his "box,"
for lack of a better word.
Once the reader
finds ITSELF
w/in the box,
it's only a matter of
time before the poet
tries to close
the lid,
He Simply Can't Help It.
It then becomes
the task of the reader,
to make sure that
it doesn't let ITSELF
become "trapped."
By the fourth stanza,
though,
the outlook is bleak.
The fifth stanza is the
reader's last hope.
If it finds ITSELF
still lost by
the sixth stanza,
it's simply "dead,"
for lack of a better
word.
For this reason,
the seventh stanza
can never be.
Monday, December 21, 2009
burgundy, ceilings, masked smiles, etc.
Mark was lying on a couch when I came in. He had a book in his hands that he held high above his face as if he was trying to contrast the text with the ceiling. He put the book down and lit a cigarette as I closed the door. “Mom and Dad are out,” he told me. His eyes were glazed over and he looked like a languid lizard stretched out on cushions.
I took a seat in the bucket chair across from the couch. “Famished?” I asked. Before responding, Mark absently scratched at a sizable, discolored section of skin on his cheek. It was a purplish patch that faded to an unhealthy yellow near the fringes. “Like I haven’t eaten for days,” he replied distractedly, managing to get a couple fingernails under the rotten skin. He pinched it and tore the whole piece off. He let it drop to the ground and continued to stare at the ceiling in his oblivious way.
I felt a little out of place, as if I suddenly didn’t belong in the room, the way a tourist might feel when he finds himself lost at night, caught in a back alley of a foreign city, not knowing the language, the customs, formalities or other trifles that everyone holds so differently, so preciously. I shifted my weight uncomfortably in the bucket chair and glanced at Mark’s exposed cheek. The flesh was already regenerating over the exposed muscle. It was like watching yeast rise in the oven while a tapestry was being woven over it by an invisible pair of hands.
“The doctor said that I’m risking a heart-attack at the rate my flesh is rotting.”
“That’s no good,” I said, “Did he tell you anything you could do?”
Mark laughed. “Yeah, stop injecting hirkin.” The idea made me laugh a little too, but the laugh felt like a cough. Hirkin was the reason I was sitting in Mark’s living room.
“Speaking of hirkin . . .” I began.
“How much do you need?” asked Mark.
“Fourteen, if you have enough to spare.”
“I do, indeed, have what you need.” He lolled the words and they swam out through the air that seemed to have congealed in the short time since he had initially mentioned hirkin. My mind reeled as he pulled out his stash from a cushion beneath him. There was a hazy flash of a man and woman leaning over me, shaking you and whispering. I shook my head and reached over for the bag Mark held out to me.
“Fifty,” he said. I pulled out a wad of purple bills. They felt like pudding in my hand. Play Land money.
“Careful with it,” said Mark, putting his head back down into a pillow while pocketing the money, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He scratched his elbow where another purple patch had begun to grow.
“You know me,” I told him, holding my arms out theatrically, “I’m Mr. Diligent.” Then I stood up and stuffed the plastic bag into my right pant pocket.
“I know you,” lolled Mark as I left the house.
I walked back to my apartment like a robot in its jerky death throes. It was only a few blocks and I made it home in twenty minutes or so. I bolted the door behind me and yelled “Foul weather for the popery!” Lindsay didn’t answer, but I knew she was home because of the tobacco smoke crawling out of the kitchen.
She was sitting at the kitchen table and didn’t turn to greet me as I walked into the room. It was still daytime and sunny outside, but she had the shades pulled down and the place was dimly lit with the unnatural, shaded yellow of a waning lamp.
I put my hands on the back of her chair and leaned over her shoulder. “I said hello darling. Aren’t you glad to see me?” She brought her cigarette up to her lips and took a drag. When she exhaled, the smoke rushed out in a controlled stream that I imagined steeply banked by a poetic lethargy. “You really should quit,” I told her, dancing around to the other side of the table and taking a seat, “It’s a nasty habit that.” She smiled sardonically. I threw the bag of hirkin onto the table between us. I noticed she had a red patch spreading on her chin.
“How much?” she asked.
“Fourteen.”
“Nice,” she sounded like a sister patronizing her younger brother for catching a frog. I reached across and tore the patch of rotten flesh from her chin. “Thanks,” she said, taking another drag. I threw the skin peel over my shoulder in the general direction of the trashcan, though not bothering to look to see if I managed to actually get it in.
“Famished?” I asked her.
“Like I haven’t eaten for days,” she said lamely. I laughed. Everyone in Play Land was a broken record.
I walked over to the cabinet and pulled out the percolator. I held it open under the faucet and let some water into it. I brought it over to the table and plugged it in. Then I opened the bag of pills and put three of them in the grinder on top the percolator. I closed the lid and slid a petri dish under the nozzle. I pressed the only button the machine had. It began to grind the pills and hiss while it heated the water.
“Has your flesh been rotting more than usual,” I asked over the noise of the machine. Except to put out her cigarette, she hadn’t moved since I had come in. I was worried about the red patch I had just pulled off her chin, but I noticed the skin had already regenerated.
“Not especially much,” she said with a sigh. “Why?”
“When I was at Mark’s . . . he wasn’t looking too good. He’s losing huge patches of skin at a time. And his skin is growing back weird, scaly. He looks like a reptile.”
“Poor guy. Were Mom and Dad home?”
“No, Mark said they were out.” Lindsay pulled a cigarette out of her pack, looked at it, then apparently decided against smoking it and slipped it back into her pack. I walked over to the silverware drawer and took out the shooter. At the same time, the percolator quit its mechanic cacophony. A thin, greenish liquid steamed in the brimming petri dish.
“You know,” I said, dipping the tip of the shooter into the liquid, “I did get the sense like Mom and Dad were there at one point. It felt like they were shaking me.”
“Interesting,” replied Lindsay, her eyes firmly fixed on the green liquid rising in the translucent cartridge of the shooter.
“Indeed,” I said, pulling the shooter out of the liquid and studying the contents of the cartridge. “Indeed,” I repeated after a lengthy couple of seconds. I screwed the nose onto the shooter. “Ready?” I asked. That drew another weak smile out of her.
“I suppose.” I walked behind her and she pulled her hair over to her shoulder so that the side of her neck was exposed. I studied the submerged rivers of blue that showed through the pale flesh. I decided on a particularly fat one and gave it a short smack with my open palm. “Oww,” she said.
“Hold still.” I pushed the little needle on the nose of the shooter into the vein and pulled the trigger. The liquid vacuumed out of the cartridge.
“In Burgundy,” I whispered in her ear as her head dropped against the back of the metal chair. I watched a dark vapor spread beneath the glossy surface of her eyeballs as I stood there. Her lips parted slightly and she let out a blissful moan. I smiled and walked around the table to fill the shooter with the rest of the hirkin.
Jacques walked off the plane with a couple of brown, leather suitcases dangling from his arms. A crowd of passengers had congregated on the tarmac at the base of the staircase that led out of the plane and he had to push with his bags to get through them. Everyone talked excitedly and some were stretching out their legs after the long flight.
From his window on the plane, Jacques had watched the sunrise over the horizon of the ocean and now the same sun was high in the sky. The air was warm, but not stifling, and Jacques took a deep breath of it. As he looked around, a porter in a red coat with gold buttons ran up to him. The man had a thin, black mustache that curled up slightly at the tips.
“M. Chopin?” asked the porter, stretching out his arms for Jacques’ luggage.
“Thanks,” said Jacques, handing his suitcases to the porter.
“Right this way.” Jacques followed the porter towards a parked taxi a couple hundred yards from the plane.
“Mme Wintry asked us to pick you up and drive you to the hotel immediately.”
“That was nice of her,” said Jacques with a pensive expression. The porter put the suitcases in the trunk. Jacques handed the porter a few coins as he stepped into the backseat of the cab. “Merci bien,” said the porter, bowing graciously.
“We go to the Parque Fontier?” asked the cab driver, turning around when Jacques had shut his door. The driver had a swarthy complexion and scrunched his thick eyebrows when he asked the question.
“If that’s what you were told,” replied Jacques. The taxi pulled up to the airport gate and the driver rolled down his window. A soldier with an assault rifle hanging from his shoulder stuck his head in the car and glanced around. The driver and the soldier, in a dialect Jacques couldn’t understand, exchanged a few short words before the soldier withdrew his head and the driver rolled the window back up. The gate opened and the taxi drove through.
“No problems with the customs,” said the driver, looking back through the rearview mirror at Jacques.
“That’s pleasant,” said Jacques.
“Have you been to Burgundy before?”
“No, this is my first time.”
“Beautiful city,” the driver raised his hand, “And you came at the perfect time of year. The sea is beautiful, warm. And the girls!” He made a circle with his fingers and then kissed them. Jacques laughed.
“I don’t know how the Mrs. would feel about the girls.”
The driver laughed back. “Anything can happen in Burgundy you know.” He winked at Jacques in the rearview.
“I heard that. That’s why I came.”
They didn’t exchange words for the remainder of the trip and Jacques spent the time watching the city scenes slide by outside his window.
The cab came to a stop in front of an opulent-looking hotel. After the driver had retrieved the suitcases from the trunk, he handed Jacques his calling card. The name on it read Adolf Trunper and there was a phone number written beneath. “Call me if you need a ride, Monsieur, it would be my pleasure.” Jacques reached into his pocket for some money. “Mme Wintry has already paid me,” said the driver, waving his hands at Jacques. “Please, do not worry.”
“Well, here’s a tip anyway.” Jacques handed Adolf a few coins. “I’ll call if I need a taxi.” Adolf bowed and got back into the taxi. Jacques picked up his luggage and headed towards the lobby.
The clerk at the front desk was typing on a computer when Jacques walked up. He looked up at Jacques and smiled a sanguine smile. “I will be your clerk today, M. Chopin.”
“You’ve been expecting me?” asked Jacques in surprise.
“Oh yes, Mme Wintry described you down to the very last detail. I believe she is very anxious to see you. She is staying in room 314. Here is your key to the room. And, please, let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” said Jacques. He took the key and picked up his bags.
Jacques unlocked the door to 314 to reveal a luxurious suite. The carpet was plush enough to sink into and there was a bar against the sidewall with a mahogany tabletop with a glittering myriad of bottles and bottles of liquor on the shelves behind it. Heavy maroon drapes hung from the windows, letting in only thin strips of sunlight that angled across the room. In the filtered, mid-afternoon sunlight, the room struck Jacques as a dream, a sort of chimerical vision that he had suddenly become a part of.
“Hello?” he called. Nothing answered him. He brought his bags into the adjacent room. A giant bed rested in the center of this room. The bed was still neatly made and a mint chocolate lay on one of the pillows. He put his suitcases down, walked over to a window and pulled the drapes slightly aside. The window looked over the street in front of the hotel. Below, the cars rolled lazily down the street and the small groups of people were sauntering away their leisure hours in front of shop windows and cafes. He let the drape fall back into place, stretched his arms out and yawned. He decided to lay down for a bit.
While sleeping, Jacques dreamed that he was writhing on a floor as he stared up at a dirty, yellow ceiling. He could barely breathe and his eradicate breaths would come out in sharp gasps. He reached out in his spasms and clutched a leg of a metal chair. It came crashing down right next to his head and the noise sent him curling into a fetal position, rocking back and forth. Oh my God. Oh my God. I kept repeating it over and over again, tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. I swear my chest was about to explode, but then the terrible vision began to dissolve from his conscious.
He felt a gentle hand rubbing his shoulder. “Mom? Dad?” he asked quietly, not opening his eyes. He was aware of a cold sweat collecting between his skin and clothes.
“It’s just a nightmare honey,” said a familiar, feminine voice. Jacques opened his eyes and a woman, leaning over him, materialized. Recognition slowly sifted into him and he sat up, placing his arms behind his back for support while he took deep, steady breaths.
“Lindsay,” he said.
“Did you get here alright?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” he felt himself recovering as the hotel room around him came into focus, “Just fine. Thanks for sending the cab. Great room too.”
“Mark set it all up for us. You should thank him at dinner.”
“Mark’s here?”
“Apparently he got in a little before I did. I told him we’d meet in a couple hours at the restaurant downstairs.”
“What time is it?” asked Jacques. He looked down at his wrist, but realized that there was no watch on the other end of his gaze.
“There’s no time here, silly silly,” chided Lindsay playfully. Jacques noticed how brilliant her smile seemed. Swiftly, he grabbed her by the arms and rolled her over his body so that he suddenly lay on top of her, pinning her to the mattress. He leaned in close.
“But you just said we have to meet him in a couple of hours,” he said smiling, trying to simultaneously point out her faulty logic while still sounding seductive, “A couple hours sounds like time to me.” She raised her head and pecked him on the lips.
“Two hours is as long as we want it to be, honey,” she said, smiling in an innocent, almost childlike way. “It’s night already and I just think that we shouldn’t take forever.”
“It’s night already?” asked Jacques, shooting a glance at the draped windows.
“Mhmm” nodded Lindsay.
“You just want it to be night,” he said almost accusingly. He felt a little childlike himself.
“Maybe. But you want it to be night too.”
“It is more romantic that way,” said Jacques thoughtfully. He dropped his head to kiss Lindsay. Lindsay giggled and then her expression became serious and she kissed him back.
A couple hours later, Jacques and Lindsay went downstairs to the hotel restaurant, which was adjacent to the lobby. The host, wearing a tuxedo, stood behind a wooden podium as they walked in. “Bonsoir,” he greeted them with the slightest bow, “Mme Wintry et M. Chopin?”
“Yes sir,” nodded Lindsay.
“Right this way.” They followed the host towards the back of the room. The restaurant was only half-full and everyone seemed to be talking in hushed voices so that the background noise was little more than a muffled din.
The host led them to a lavish, red leather booth near the back of the room where Mark was already sitting with his feet up on the shiny, black tabletop. He was smoking a cigar and idly looking up at the ceiling as they approached.
“You made it,” he said, sluggishly swinging his legs off the table and sitting up straight. He had on a bucket hat and a sly smile. Jacques thought he looked exceptionally handsome in the soft light of the restaurant. His tan was a near perfect hue and his body gave off a muscular, vital aura.
Jacques and Lindsay slid into the booth across the table from Mark. “Yes we did,” smiled Jacques, putting his palms down deftly on the table for emphasis. Mark took the cigar out of his mouth and used his elbow to lean across the table towards them.
“Hate to spoil the trip, but I can’t ignore it anymore,” he whispered conspiratorially, his smile disappearing. “We got a major problem. I think we’re fucked.” He leaned back into his seat. “Fucked,” he mouthed silently, looking around.
Lindsay and Jacques exchanged glances. “What are you talking about?” laughed Jacques, “Did you forget your VISA card? I got a pocket full of coins if that’s what you’re worried about.” Mark stared back at them blankly. Jacques stopped laughing and asked again, “What are you talking about?”
“None of this feels odd to you?” Mark looked from Jacques to Lindsay and then back to Jacques. “You haven’t noticed anything strange?”
“No,” said Lindsay, shrugging her shoulders.
“Listen,” said Mark, “Mom and Dad are here. I know this for a fact. Not only that, but I’m pretty sure the police are crawling everywhere. This all has the feeling of a set-up. I’ve been too afraid to sleep. I’m positive that we’ve been set-up.” Mark puffed anxiously on his cigar.
“How can you be sure?” asked Lindsay in a legitimately panicked voice.
“They’re not materializing correctly. Someone else is in control. They all know my name without me wanting them to know it. A-and they’re looking for something.”
“Can I get you anything to drink?” came a shrill voice. All three of them gave a nervous start. There was a small man standing next to the table, apparently the waiter. Like the host, he was in a tuxedo and had one arm held behind his back while the other was held out in front of him like a towel rack for the long, white napkin draped over it.
Mark looked the waiter up and down suspiciously. Jacques narrowed his eyes and Lindsay touched Jacques’ thigh under the table. “No, we’re still deciding, go away please,” said Mark after a few dramatic moments.
“That is just fine,” said the waiter through a heavy accent, “I will return in five minutes.” The man turned on his heels and strode away.
“Did you just put him there?” asked Mark with a tinge of trepidation in his voice, glancing back and forth between Lindsay and Jacques. “Was that one of us that did that?”
“I don’t think I did,” said Jacques hesitantly with an addled look on his face.
“I can’t be sure,” admitted Lindsay, “I don’t think I did.”
“Shit,” said Mark as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Alright, well we can’t get too paranoid or else we’ll start to confuse ourselves. That’s the last thing we need. Just keep a clear head. Keep it cool. Something is going on, and we need to figure out what.”
“You said Mom and Dad were here?” asked Lindsay in a low voice, obviously trying to quell the panic in her voice.
Mark suddenly started laughing. “You should see your guys’ faces.” He put his head back and laughed hard at the ceiling, “Oh boy,” he wiped his eyes and tried to swallow the laughter into his wide smile. “I was just kidding, everything’s cool. I was the one who put the waiter there. I was just fucking with you guys.” He chuckled again.
“Oh, thanks Mark, you dick,” said Jacques resentfully. “I was actually worried.”
“Nice one, Mark,” said Lindsay with a nervous laugh.
Mark let out a contented sigh. “I couldn’t resist, I just couldn’t,” and then he chuckled again. “Anyway,” regaining his composure, “I did bring you guys some of this.” He slid a clear dime bag across the table. It was filled with a purple powder.
Jacques picked it up and held it in the light above his head. “What is it?” he asked.
“It’s Good.”
“Good?” asked Lindsay.
“Yeah, does battle with evil, makes the world worth living in, saves starving children from hunger, the whole shebang, but for fuck’s sake, Jacques, stop holding it up for everyone in the fucking restaurant to see!”
Jacques and Lindsay were in a stall in the women’s room. “I can’t believe I came all the way to fucking Burgundy to do Mark’s drugs in a fucking bathroom stall,” complained Jacques.
“He said it’s Good,” said Lindsay reassuringly.
“Whatever,” sighed Jacques, laying out a purple pile atop the ceramic back of the toilet. He pulled out a card and sliced the powder into two long, thin lines. “Do you have something I can use?”
Lindsay pulled a plastic straw out of her purse. “You go boy,” she said in a chiding, playful tone. Jacques leaned over and took an entire line in a single, fluid inhalation. He straightened up, stuck his nose in the air and snorted loudly.
“Arghh, it burns,” he said, sounding like he just came down with a cold. “It really burns.”
Lindsay was looking at the olive green siding of the stall. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to some small words scribbled in black sharpie. “It says: Close Your Eyes.”
Jacques had a hand on his forehead and looked dazed. “This stuff is Good, Lindsay. Fucking Good. What the hell does that even mean?” And he closed his eyes.
You’re surrounded by dark and the only thing you sense is a monotonous, incremental, and high-pitched beeping. You listen to the beeps, slightly annoyed but too tired to do anything. Soon the dark begins to fade a little and there is a light that is illuminating the other side of your eyelids and its lambent glow diffuses through you as you take hold of your consciousness. You feel sedated and weak, but the steady, intrusive beeps give you the impression of an electric pulse. As you listen, you realize that the beeps are coordinated with your heartbeat and soon you can also feel your breath go in and out, in and out with the beeps. You don’t open your eyes, but you know that you’re back in time. You measure the passing moments through each beep, each heartbeat, each breath. You rest here in the soft, formless light.
Then, from outside of you, there comes a masculine voice. It sounds excited and familiar. You hear the voice say, “Christie, Christie! Jacqueline just stirred. I just saw her stir.”
“Oh my God,” you hear another voice say, this one is feminine but it also sounds familiar. There is some ruffling, some shuffling, and then the feminine voice, really close to your face, says “Jacqueline, baby, it’s Mom, baby, can you hear me?” You can feel her warm breath on your ear and you smile weakly, but still don’t open your eyes.
“I’m going to get the doctor,” you hear the man’s voice say, “Stay with her.”
“Jacqueline, baby, can you hear me?” Not only can you hear her, but you can also sense the repressed tears from the paroxysm you’ve inspired in her. Then the glow starts to fade and soon you’re enveloped in darkness again.
Jacques and Lindsay were sitting at the table with Mark. “What is this stuff?” asked Lindsay in a detached tone, “It’s really strong.”
“Good?” asked Mark, replying in question.
“Yeah, I mean, yes, like I’m floating,” said Jacques through a stoned smile. “What are we doing here?”
“Waiting,” said Mark, glancing around the restaurant. “Are you guys hungry?”
“Not particularly,” said Lindsay. Jacques was staring at his fingers. Tiny patterns were swirling and taking shape on the surface of his fingernails. A dragon took form and smoke billowed from its bearded mouth. As the smoke wafted out, it began to take on the form of a rabbit. “Boo!” said Mark to his fingernail. The rabbit, scared, jumped off his fingernail and onto the floor. He watched it leap away, weaving between the tables until it was out of sight. He giggled after it.
“The carp will win,” sighed Lindsay.
“What’s up?” asked Mark, looking a little confused.
“There is a carp that has lived in Burgundy all his life,” began Lindsay, in a slow, calculated voice, “Which is to say he’s always existed and he has therefore never existed. Somehow knows his days are numbered, despite the timelessness of his existence. This knowledge puts the gleam in his eye. Personally,” her face took on a mechanical and expressionless air, “I don’t believe in hoaxes, but I’m starting to believe in the carp. It seems clear that he will triumph soon.”
“Triumph soon?” Mark’s face showed a slight amusement.
“Not long ago,” said Jacques, turning to make eye contact with Lindsay, “I, too, heard a similar story.”
“You guys are making absolutely no sense,” interrupted Mark. But Jacques continued as if he hadn’t heard him.
“There are many ways we could handle the carp and his gleam. The method with the most potential . . .” he paused for emphasis, then, annunciating each word carefully, “. . . involves a small pillbox and a ragged blade.” Lindsay’s eyes suddenly slid back into her head and she slumped back into the red leather. Her body started to convulse and Mark stood up quickly, cursing under his breath. He tried to get over to Lindsay, but Jacques shoved him back.
“What the fuck are you doing,” yelled Mark, but Jacques began throwing wild punches from his seat. Iron bars were rising all around the table and Jacques was yelling something about being framed. He ripped at the orange jumpsuit that had managed to appear on his body.
Instantly, the chaos subsided and Jacques found himself sitting alone on the concrete floor of a cell. Thick, iron bars caged him in on all sides. Outside of them was black nothingness, void. He seemed to be the only thing generating any sort of light in the environment.
His eyes traced the bars upwards. He couldn’t see where they ended because they disappeared into the pitch-black abysm that hung overhead. He stared up into the nothing for a little while. Then he looked down at his hands and wished that he had a ceiling to look at.
I took a seat in the bucket chair across from the couch. “Famished?” I asked. Before responding, Mark absently scratched at a sizable, discolored section of skin on his cheek. It was a purplish patch that faded to an unhealthy yellow near the fringes. “Like I haven’t eaten for days,” he replied distractedly, managing to get a couple fingernails under the rotten skin. He pinched it and tore the whole piece off. He let it drop to the ground and continued to stare at the ceiling in his oblivious way.
I felt a little out of place, as if I suddenly didn’t belong in the room, the way a tourist might feel when he finds himself lost at night, caught in a back alley of a foreign city, not knowing the language, the customs, formalities or other trifles that everyone holds so differently, so preciously. I shifted my weight uncomfortably in the bucket chair and glanced at Mark’s exposed cheek. The flesh was already regenerating over the exposed muscle. It was like watching yeast rise in the oven while a tapestry was being woven over it by an invisible pair of hands.
“The doctor said that I’m risking a heart-attack at the rate my flesh is rotting.”
“That’s no good,” I said, “Did he tell you anything you could do?”
Mark laughed. “Yeah, stop injecting hirkin.” The idea made me laugh a little too, but the laugh felt like a cough. Hirkin was the reason I was sitting in Mark’s living room.
“Speaking of hirkin . . .” I began.
“How much do you need?” asked Mark.
“Fourteen, if you have enough to spare.”
“I do, indeed, have what you need.” He lolled the words and they swam out through the air that seemed to have congealed in the short time since he had initially mentioned hirkin. My mind reeled as he pulled out his stash from a cushion beneath him. There was a hazy flash of a man and woman leaning over me, shaking you and whispering. I shook my head and reached over for the bag Mark held out to me.
“Fifty,” he said. I pulled out a wad of purple bills. They felt like pudding in my hand. Play Land money.
“Careful with it,” said Mark, putting his head back down into a pillow while pocketing the money, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He scratched his elbow where another purple patch had begun to grow.
“You know me,” I told him, holding my arms out theatrically, “I’m Mr. Diligent.” Then I stood up and stuffed the plastic bag into my right pant pocket.
“I know you,” lolled Mark as I left the house.
I walked back to my apartment like a robot in its jerky death throes. It was only a few blocks and I made it home in twenty minutes or so. I bolted the door behind me and yelled “Foul weather for the popery!” Lindsay didn’t answer, but I knew she was home because of the tobacco smoke crawling out of the kitchen.
She was sitting at the kitchen table and didn’t turn to greet me as I walked into the room. It was still daytime and sunny outside, but she had the shades pulled down and the place was dimly lit with the unnatural, shaded yellow of a waning lamp.
I put my hands on the back of her chair and leaned over her shoulder. “I said hello darling. Aren’t you glad to see me?” She brought her cigarette up to her lips and took a drag. When she exhaled, the smoke rushed out in a controlled stream that I imagined steeply banked by a poetic lethargy. “You really should quit,” I told her, dancing around to the other side of the table and taking a seat, “It’s a nasty habit that.” She smiled sardonically. I threw the bag of hirkin onto the table between us. I noticed she had a red patch spreading on her chin.
“How much?” she asked.
“Fourteen.”
“Nice,” she sounded like a sister patronizing her younger brother for catching a frog. I reached across and tore the patch of rotten flesh from her chin. “Thanks,” she said, taking another drag. I threw the skin peel over my shoulder in the general direction of the trashcan, though not bothering to look to see if I managed to actually get it in.
“Famished?” I asked her.
“Like I haven’t eaten for days,” she said lamely. I laughed. Everyone in Play Land was a broken record.
I walked over to the cabinet and pulled out the percolator. I held it open under the faucet and let some water into it. I brought it over to the table and plugged it in. Then I opened the bag of pills and put three of them in the grinder on top the percolator. I closed the lid and slid a petri dish under the nozzle. I pressed the only button the machine had. It began to grind the pills and hiss while it heated the water.
“Has your flesh been rotting more than usual,” I asked over the noise of the machine. Except to put out her cigarette, she hadn’t moved since I had come in. I was worried about the red patch I had just pulled off her chin, but I noticed the skin had already regenerated.
“Not especially much,” she said with a sigh. “Why?”
“When I was at Mark’s . . . he wasn’t looking too good. He’s losing huge patches of skin at a time. And his skin is growing back weird, scaly. He looks like a reptile.”
“Poor guy. Were Mom and Dad home?”
“No, Mark said they were out.” Lindsay pulled a cigarette out of her pack, looked at it, then apparently decided against smoking it and slipped it back into her pack. I walked over to the silverware drawer and took out the shooter. At the same time, the percolator quit its mechanic cacophony. A thin, greenish liquid steamed in the brimming petri dish.
“You know,” I said, dipping the tip of the shooter into the liquid, “I did get the sense like Mom and Dad were there at one point. It felt like they were shaking me.”
“Interesting,” replied Lindsay, her eyes firmly fixed on the green liquid rising in the translucent cartridge of the shooter.
“Indeed,” I said, pulling the shooter out of the liquid and studying the contents of the cartridge. “Indeed,” I repeated after a lengthy couple of seconds. I screwed the nose onto the shooter. “Ready?” I asked. That drew another weak smile out of her.
“I suppose.” I walked behind her and she pulled her hair over to her shoulder so that the side of her neck was exposed. I studied the submerged rivers of blue that showed through the pale flesh. I decided on a particularly fat one and gave it a short smack with my open palm. “Oww,” she said.
“Hold still.” I pushed the little needle on the nose of the shooter into the vein and pulled the trigger. The liquid vacuumed out of the cartridge.
“In Burgundy,” I whispered in her ear as her head dropped against the back of the metal chair. I watched a dark vapor spread beneath the glossy surface of her eyeballs as I stood there. Her lips parted slightly and she let out a blissful moan. I smiled and walked around the table to fill the shooter with the rest of the hirkin.
Jacques walked off the plane with a couple of brown, leather suitcases dangling from his arms. A crowd of passengers had congregated on the tarmac at the base of the staircase that led out of the plane and he had to push with his bags to get through them. Everyone talked excitedly and some were stretching out their legs after the long flight.
From his window on the plane, Jacques had watched the sunrise over the horizon of the ocean and now the same sun was high in the sky. The air was warm, but not stifling, and Jacques took a deep breath of it. As he looked around, a porter in a red coat with gold buttons ran up to him. The man had a thin, black mustache that curled up slightly at the tips.
“M. Chopin?” asked the porter, stretching out his arms for Jacques’ luggage.
“Thanks,” said Jacques, handing his suitcases to the porter.
“Right this way.” Jacques followed the porter towards a parked taxi a couple hundred yards from the plane.
“Mme Wintry asked us to pick you up and drive you to the hotel immediately.”
“That was nice of her,” said Jacques with a pensive expression. The porter put the suitcases in the trunk. Jacques handed the porter a few coins as he stepped into the backseat of the cab. “Merci bien,” said the porter, bowing graciously.
“We go to the Parque Fontier?” asked the cab driver, turning around when Jacques had shut his door. The driver had a swarthy complexion and scrunched his thick eyebrows when he asked the question.
“If that’s what you were told,” replied Jacques. The taxi pulled up to the airport gate and the driver rolled down his window. A soldier with an assault rifle hanging from his shoulder stuck his head in the car and glanced around. The driver and the soldier, in a dialect Jacques couldn’t understand, exchanged a few short words before the soldier withdrew his head and the driver rolled the window back up. The gate opened and the taxi drove through.
“No problems with the customs,” said the driver, looking back through the rearview mirror at Jacques.
“That’s pleasant,” said Jacques.
“Have you been to Burgundy before?”
“No, this is my first time.”
“Beautiful city,” the driver raised his hand, “And you came at the perfect time of year. The sea is beautiful, warm. And the girls!” He made a circle with his fingers and then kissed them. Jacques laughed.
“I don’t know how the Mrs. would feel about the girls.”
The driver laughed back. “Anything can happen in Burgundy you know.” He winked at Jacques in the rearview.
“I heard that. That’s why I came.”
They didn’t exchange words for the remainder of the trip and Jacques spent the time watching the city scenes slide by outside his window.
The cab came to a stop in front of an opulent-looking hotel. After the driver had retrieved the suitcases from the trunk, he handed Jacques his calling card. The name on it read Adolf Trunper and there was a phone number written beneath. “Call me if you need a ride, Monsieur, it would be my pleasure.” Jacques reached into his pocket for some money. “Mme Wintry has already paid me,” said the driver, waving his hands at Jacques. “Please, do not worry.”
“Well, here’s a tip anyway.” Jacques handed Adolf a few coins. “I’ll call if I need a taxi.” Adolf bowed and got back into the taxi. Jacques picked up his luggage and headed towards the lobby.
The clerk at the front desk was typing on a computer when Jacques walked up. He looked up at Jacques and smiled a sanguine smile. “I will be your clerk today, M. Chopin.”
“You’ve been expecting me?” asked Jacques in surprise.
“Oh yes, Mme Wintry described you down to the very last detail. I believe she is very anxious to see you. She is staying in room 314. Here is your key to the room. And, please, let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” said Jacques. He took the key and picked up his bags.
Jacques unlocked the door to 314 to reveal a luxurious suite. The carpet was plush enough to sink into and there was a bar against the sidewall with a mahogany tabletop with a glittering myriad of bottles and bottles of liquor on the shelves behind it. Heavy maroon drapes hung from the windows, letting in only thin strips of sunlight that angled across the room. In the filtered, mid-afternoon sunlight, the room struck Jacques as a dream, a sort of chimerical vision that he had suddenly become a part of.
“Hello?” he called. Nothing answered him. He brought his bags into the adjacent room. A giant bed rested in the center of this room. The bed was still neatly made and a mint chocolate lay on one of the pillows. He put his suitcases down, walked over to a window and pulled the drapes slightly aside. The window looked over the street in front of the hotel. Below, the cars rolled lazily down the street and the small groups of people were sauntering away their leisure hours in front of shop windows and cafes. He let the drape fall back into place, stretched his arms out and yawned. He decided to lay down for a bit.
While sleeping, Jacques dreamed that he was writhing on a floor as he stared up at a dirty, yellow ceiling. He could barely breathe and his eradicate breaths would come out in sharp gasps. He reached out in his spasms and clutched a leg of a metal chair. It came crashing down right next to his head and the noise sent him curling into a fetal position, rocking back and forth. Oh my God. Oh my God. I kept repeating it over and over again, tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. I swear my chest was about to explode, but then the terrible vision began to dissolve from his conscious.
He felt a gentle hand rubbing his shoulder. “Mom? Dad?” he asked quietly, not opening his eyes. He was aware of a cold sweat collecting between his skin and clothes.
“It’s just a nightmare honey,” said a familiar, feminine voice. Jacques opened his eyes and a woman, leaning over him, materialized. Recognition slowly sifted into him and he sat up, placing his arms behind his back for support while he took deep, steady breaths.
“Lindsay,” he said.
“Did you get here alright?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” he felt himself recovering as the hotel room around him came into focus, “Just fine. Thanks for sending the cab. Great room too.”
“Mark set it all up for us. You should thank him at dinner.”
“Mark’s here?”
“Apparently he got in a little before I did. I told him we’d meet in a couple hours at the restaurant downstairs.”
“What time is it?” asked Jacques. He looked down at his wrist, but realized that there was no watch on the other end of his gaze.
“There’s no time here, silly silly,” chided Lindsay playfully. Jacques noticed how brilliant her smile seemed. Swiftly, he grabbed her by the arms and rolled her over his body so that he suddenly lay on top of her, pinning her to the mattress. He leaned in close.
“But you just said we have to meet him in a couple of hours,” he said smiling, trying to simultaneously point out her faulty logic while still sounding seductive, “A couple hours sounds like time to me.” She raised her head and pecked him on the lips.
“Two hours is as long as we want it to be, honey,” she said, smiling in an innocent, almost childlike way. “It’s night already and I just think that we shouldn’t take forever.”
“It’s night already?” asked Jacques, shooting a glance at the draped windows.
“Mhmm” nodded Lindsay.
“You just want it to be night,” he said almost accusingly. He felt a little childlike himself.
“Maybe. But you want it to be night too.”
“It is more romantic that way,” said Jacques thoughtfully. He dropped his head to kiss Lindsay. Lindsay giggled and then her expression became serious and she kissed him back.
A couple hours later, Jacques and Lindsay went downstairs to the hotel restaurant, which was adjacent to the lobby. The host, wearing a tuxedo, stood behind a wooden podium as they walked in. “Bonsoir,” he greeted them with the slightest bow, “Mme Wintry et M. Chopin?”
“Yes sir,” nodded Lindsay.
“Right this way.” They followed the host towards the back of the room. The restaurant was only half-full and everyone seemed to be talking in hushed voices so that the background noise was little more than a muffled din.
The host led them to a lavish, red leather booth near the back of the room where Mark was already sitting with his feet up on the shiny, black tabletop. He was smoking a cigar and idly looking up at the ceiling as they approached.
“You made it,” he said, sluggishly swinging his legs off the table and sitting up straight. He had on a bucket hat and a sly smile. Jacques thought he looked exceptionally handsome in the soft light of the restaurant. His tan was a near perfect hue and his body gave off a muscular, vital aura.
Jacques and Lindsay slid into the booth across the table from Mark. “Yes we did,” smiled Jacques, putting his palms down deftly on the table for emphasis. Mark took the cigar out of his mouth and used his elbow to lean across the table towards them.
“Hate to spoil the trip, but I can’t ignore it anymore,” he whispered conspiratorially, his smile disappearing. “We got a major problem. I think we’re fucked.” He leaned back into his seat. “Fucked,” he mouthed silently, looking around.
Lindsay and Jacques exchanged glances. “What are you talking about?” laughed Jacques, “Did you forget your VISA card? I got a pocket full of coins if that’s what you’re worried about.” Mark stared back at them blankly. Jacques stopped laughing and asked again, “What are you talking about?”
“None of this feels odd to you?” Mark looked from Jacques to Lindsay and then back to Jacques. “You haven’t noticed anything strange?”
“No,” said Lindsay, shrugging her shoulders.
“Listen,” said Mark, “Mom and Dad are here. I know this for a fact. Not only that, but I’m pretty sure the police are crawling everywhere. This all has the feeling of a set-up. I’ve been too afraid to sleep. I’m positive that we’ve been set-up.” Mark puffed anxiously on his cigar.
“How can you be sure?” asked Lindsay in a legitimately panicked voice.
“They’re not materializing correctly. Someone else is in control. They all know my name without me wanting them to know it. A-and they’re looking for something.”
“Can I get you anything to drink?” came a shrill voice. All three of them gave a nervous start. There was a small man standing next to the table, apparently the waiter. Like the host, he was in a tuxedo and had one arm held behind his back while the other was held out in front of him like a towel rack for the long, white napkin draped over it.
Mark looked the waiter up and down suspiciously. Jacques narrowed his eyes and Lindsay touched Jacques’ thigh under the table. “No, we’re still deciding, go away please,” said Mark after a few dramatic moments.
“That is just fine,” said the waiter through a heavy accent, “I will return in five minutes.” The man turned on his heels and strode away.
“Did you just put him there?” asked Mark with a tinge of trepidation in his voice, glancing back and forth between Lindsay and Jacques. “Was that one of us that did that?”
“I don’t think I did,” said Jacques hesitantly with an addled look on his face.
“I can’t be sure,” admitted Lindsay, “I don’t think I did.”
“Shit,” said Mark as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Alright, well we can’t get too paranoid or else we’ll start to confuse ourselves. That’s the last thing we need. Just keep a clear head. Keep it cool. Something is going on, and we need to figure out what.”
“You said Mom and Dad were here?” asked Lindsay in a low voice, obviously trying to quell the panic in her voice.
Mark suddenly started laughing. “You should see your guys’ faces.” He put his head back and laughed hard at the ceiling, “Oh boy,” he wiped his eyes and tried to swallow the laughter into his wide smile. “I was just kidding, everything’s cool. I was the one who put the waiter there. I was just fucking with you guys.” He chuckled again.
“Oh, thanks Mark, you dick,” said Jacques resentfully. “I was actually worried.”
“Nice one, Mark,” said Lindsay with a nervous laugh.
Mark let out a contented sigh. “I couldn’t resist, I just couldn’t,” and then he chuckled again. “Anyway,” regaining his composure, “I did bring you guys some of this.” He slid a clear dime bag across the table. It was filled with a purple powder.
Jacques picked it up and held it in the light above his head. “What is it?” he asked.
“It’s Good.”
“Good?” asked Lindsay.
“Yeah, does battle with evil, makes the world worth living in, saves starving children from hunger, the whole shebang, but for fuck’s sake, Jacques, stop holding it up for everyone in the fucking restaurant to see!”
Jacques and Lindsay were in a stall in the women’s room. “I can’t believe I came all the way to fucking Burgundy to do Mark’s drugs in a fucking bathroom stall,” complained Jacques.
“He said it’s Good,” said Lindsay reassuringly.
“Whatever,” sighed Jacques, laying out a purple pile atop the ceramic back of the toilet. He pulled out a card and sliced the powder into two long, thin lines. “Do you have something I can use?”
Lindsay pulled a plastic straw out of her purse. “You go boy,” she said in a chiding, playful tone. Jacques leaned over and took an entire line in a single, fluid inhalation. He straightened up, stuck his nose in the air and snorted loudly.
“Arghh, it burns,” he said, sounding like he just came down with a cold. “It really burns.”
Lindsay was looking at the olive green siding of the stall. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to some small words scribbled in black sharpie. “It says: Close Your Eyes.”
Jacques had a hand on his forehead and looked dazed. “This stuff is Good, Lindsay. Fucking Good. What the hell does that even mean?” And he closed his eyes.
You’re surrounded by dark and the only thing you sense is a monotonous, incremental, and high-pitched beeping. You listen to the beeps, slightly annoyed but too tired to do anything. Soon the dark begins to fade a little and there is a light that is illuminating the other side of your eyelids and its lambent glow diffuses through you as you take hold of your consciousness. You feel sedated and weak, but the steady, intrusive beeps give you the impression of an electric pulse. As you listen, you realize that the beeps are coordinated with your heartbeat and soon you can also feel your breath go in and out, in and out with the beeps. You don’t open your eyes, but you know that you’re back in time. You measure the passing moments through each beep, each heartbeat, each breath. You rest here in the soft, formless light.
Then, from outside of you, there comes a masculine voice. It sounds excited and familiar. You hear the voice say, “Christie, Christie! Jacqueline just stirred. I just saw her stir.”
“Oh my God,” you hear another voice say, this one is feminine but it also sounds familiar. There is some ruffling, some shuffling, and then the feminine voice, really close to your face, says “Jacqueline, baby, it’s Mom, baby, can you hear me?” You can feel her warm breath on your ear and you smile weakly, but still don’t open your eyes.
“I’m going to get the doctor,” you hear the man’s voice say, “Stay with her.”
“Jacqueline, baby, can you hear me?” Not only can you hear her, but you can also sense the repressed tears from the paroxysm you’ve inspired in her. Then the glow starts to fade and soon you’re enveloped in darkness again.
Jacques and Lindsay were sitting at the table with Mark. “What is this stuff?” asked Lindsay in a detached tone, “It’s really strong.”
“Good?” asked Mark, replying in question.
“Yeah, I mean, yes, like I’m floating,” said Jacques through a stoned smile. “What are we doing here?”
“Waiting,” said Mark, glancing around the restaurant. “Are you guys hungry?”
“Not particularly,” said Lindsay. Jacques was staring at his fingers. Tiny patterns were swirling and taking shape on the surface of his fingernails. A dragon took form and smoke billowed from its bearded mouth. As the smoke wafted out, it began to take on the form of a rabbit. “Boo!” said Mark to his fingernail. The rabbit, scared, jumped off his fingernail and onto the floor. He watched it leap away, weaving between the tables until it was out of sight. He giggled after it.
“The carp will win,” sighed Lindsay.
“What’s up?” asked Mark, looking a little confused.
“There is a carp that has lived in Burgundy all his life,” began Lindsay, in a slow, calculated voice, “Which is to say he’s always existed and he has therefore never existed. Somehow knows his days are numbered, despite the timelessness of his existence. This knowledge puts the gleam in his eye. Personally,” her face took on a mechanical and expressionless air, “I don’t believe in hoaxes, but I’m starting to believe in the carp. It seems clear that he will triumph soon.”
“Triumph soon?” Mark’s face showed a slight amusement.
“Not long ago,” said Jacques, turning to make eye contact with Lindsay, “I, too, heard a similar story.”
“You guys are making absolutely no sense,” interrupted Mark. But Jacques continued as if he hadn’t heard him.
“There are many ways we could handle the carp and his gleam. The method with the most potential . . .” he paused for emphasis, then, annunciating each word carefully, “. . . involves a small pillbox and a ragged blade.” Lindsay’s eyes suddenly slid back into her head and she slumped back into the red leather. Her body started to convulse and Mark stood up quickly, cursing under his breath. He tried to get over to Lindsay, but Jacques shoved him back.
“What the fuck are you doing,” yelled Mark, but Jacques began throwing wild punches from his seat. Iron bars were rising all around the table and Jacques was yelling something about being framed. He ripped at the orange jumpsuit that had managed to appear on his body.
Instantly, the chaos subsided and Jacques found himself sitting alone on the concrete floor of a cell. Thick, iron bars caged him in on all sides. Outside of them was black nothingness, void. He seemed to be the only thing generating any sort of light in the environment.
His eyes traced the bars upwards. He couldn’t see where they ended because they disappeared into the pitch-black abysm that hung overhead. He stared up into the nothing for a little while. Then he looked down at his hands and wished that he had a ceiling to look at.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Gala Corp.
Tom put his pen down and stood up from his desk. He yawned, stretched his arms out, bent over and touched his toes. He adjusted his glasses and looked around. The 54th floor office was alive with activity. Conversations rose from groups of people that collected in open spaces around the floor. The raised voices of their conversations danced with one another, creating a violent and harmonic cadence, entirely without beat, but not entirely without rhythm. It was music to Tom’s ears. He sniffed loudly.
Individual employees, some vaguely familiar, others entirely alien, were weaving through the narrow corridors between desks with papers or empty coffee cups in their hands. Tom could feel a breeze each time one of them hurried by him. He noticed a particularly large group of employees was formed around the coffee machine off to his right. Mr. Beasly seemed to be the center of attention as he waved his hands and laughed loudly with some of the other managers. Ahh, thought Tom, just another ordinary afternoon at Galla Corp. Marketing™.
At that moment, Alice passed by him from behind. Her breeze wrapped perfume around him and Tom felt like he had huffed from a whip-cream canister. He levitated a couple feet in his mind.
Alice, though, was oblivious to him as she continued on a frenetic mission across the floor while juggling two huge stacks of papers in her arms. “Alice!” called Tom in a shrill pitch. She paused and he rushed to catch up with her. “Here, let me take one of those for you.” He relieved her of one of the stacks. “It’d be a tragedy if you dropped all of these.”
“Thanks,” said Alice, giving Tom a brief glance before putting her eyes back on the path. “I’m bringing these over to Nathan. I was supposed to have them done by this morning.” An employee rushed by between them. Alice sighed, “I don’t know how we’re expected to keep up with everything here. It’s so hectic.”
Tom gave her his best smile. The smile that used to get him in trouble with the other kids back in high school. Faggot! His smile quickly vanished and his cheeks reddened at the troubled memories. “What are you working on?” He forced the words out. Tom was madly in love with Alice and very much aware of the insipid conversations he always managed to initiate in her presence.
“We’re creating street ads for one of Imagicore Clothing™’s new lines. The strategy has something to do with bringing the honey back to the hive . . . or something. I’m convinced it won’t sell a single shirt.” (Actually, the new slogan was “A Hive Without Honey, Ain’t No Hive At All”) Alice sighed again, taking long strides as she dodged the oncoming human traffic. Tom struggled to keep pace with her.
“I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” said Tom, “I mean honey’s good. People like honey.”
“But who the hell can relate to bees?” asked Alice in a frustrated groan. She was still staring straight ahead while Tom intently kept eye contact with the sublime profile of her face.
“I don’t know, I mean, I kinda feel like a bee right now. I mean, I think it’d make sense if everyone on this floor was wearing yellow and black stripes.” Tom became a little excited as he realized he might be giving a very insightful, and possibly witty, commentary. His voice rose a couple octaves, “I mean, sometimes I wish I had a stinger coming out of my-” He was cut short by a violent collision with another employee. Tom, being much smaller than the other man, went sprawling backwards as the papers he was holding flew into the air.
The other man, looking down at Tom, screwed a quite pleasant face into an awkward, embarrassed expression. “I’m sorry,” said the man, breathing in deeply. “I should have been paying more attention.” Tom’s face went red again as he scurried onto his feet and started trying to collect the hundreds of papers that had erupted all over the place. The man, deciding against the paper recovery operation, curtly continued on his way after another “Sorry.”
“Shit,” said Alice in frustration, “Nathan’s gonna kill me.” Employees kept rushing by. “Arhh.”
“I’m . . . I’m so s-sorry,” stuttered Tom, “I didn’t see him coming at all. I’m such a . . . a klutz sometimes, I mean . . .” he let his sentence linger off as he got on his knees to reach under a desk for one of the papers.
“Just give me what you have now,” demanded Alice, looking down at Tom. Tom quickly turned on his knees and handed her the papers he had. He looked up at her pleadingly, but she just grabbed the papers and hurried onward, leaving Tom to watch her fade into the office activity from his reverential pose. He stayed on his knees for a few moments, and straightened his glasses as he stared off into the direction she had disappeared into.
He nearly jumped as a strong hand slapped him on the shoulder. “Tom, what in the heavens are you doing?” asked Mr. Beasly’s familiar, paternal voice.
“Mr. Beasly,” Tom’s voice held a tinge of nervousness, “I was just . . . uhh . . .”
“No matter,” laughed Mr. Beasly, “Come over to my office. I want to show you the new project I’m setting you up with. I think you’ll like it.”
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Cold Saturday Night, New York City, c. 1997
“Formally speaking, of course.” Of course, of course, Junto and his of courses, they were endless. Junto, the perfect and eternal metonym of humanity’s assumptive capability. Junto, the bespectacled parasitic flower of uninspired perception. Of course. Always of course.
“Of course,” smiled Brique, playing with a spoon in her whisky soda, listening to the steady clinks of steel tapping around a glass cage, hypnotized by the shit-brown whirlpool she generated in the clutches of her fist, the tiny pieces of ice like diamonds caught in the vortex of a tornado.
“Speaking of it formally,” she began, not at all interested in what she was saying, wanting only to throw a wrench into Junto’s train of thought, “Doesn’t allow for the intimacy required to truly gain an understanding of it, though.” She had the vague feeling that she should be somewhere else. No where in particular, just not here with Junto. There was nothing worse than being stuck alone with Junto. She raised the glass to her lips and the liquid pooled into her mouth and felt cold as she swallowed it and then there was a burst warmth in her chest. Nothing more monotonous than Junto. She burped. Nothing more dulling to the senses. The drink was strong and helped her cope with her gloomy mood.
“Well, I mean, you have to peel back the layers,” responded Junto, making a limp-wristed gesture, opening his palm to the ceiling in a way that made Brique think of a waiter serving a dish of air, “But you start with the first layer, you know. That’s the only place you can start. Just like the way it usually is with people: you meet them formally and then continue on from there. But the first meeting is almost always formal, of course.” Brique finished the rest of her drink.
“That’s the . . . Junto, I don’t care. I really don’t. We’re trying to patch up a hole with ice cream.” She stood up to go to the kitchen where the whisky sat on a counter.
Two thirds whisky, one third coke. Four pieces of ice. Stirring it all with the spoon, sparking the symphony of anguished clinks, the whirlpool of liquid shit, the diamonds twirling around in the tornado.
She walked back into the living room. Junto was playing with a rubik’s cube in his armchair. “It’s these dreams” he says without looking up from the cube, “That I can’t seem to untangle myself from. Some conniving spider built his web right in front of the light and I’m the moth that didn’t see it. And the web, of course, it’s of this sticky and highly irrational silk. Simultaneously irritating and pleasant, like scratching an itch or taking care of the utility bills.” Brique made herself comfortable in the armchair opposite Junto and took a long drink from her whisky.
“Junto, you can’t just assume it’s an irrational silk. Maybe sticky, but not simply irrational. There’s a fundamental logic to everything, even to dreams. It’s just not as reassuring as the laws of physics, or our chemical theories, or biology. It’s complicated and fluid and there’s no container for it.”
“A fundamental logic to everything? Sounds like you’re making the assumptions.”
Junto held the cube up to the light. His glasses glinted and Brique thought of a blind philosopher and she giggled.
The whisky was making Brique feel lighter. The room had softened. “I was just demonstrating how your assumption could easily be made irrelevant by another assumption.”
“You’re covering your ass. You’re just as assuming as I am. Admit it.”
Brique laughed again. “I was thinking earlier that you’re like a bespectacled parasitic flower of uninspired perception,” she said.
“I like the rhythm. Parasitic flower, of course, makes no sense.”
“Think about it. Chop the words up like vegetables. Cook them into something. Use your imagination, no matter how irrational it might make you feel.”
“An exercise in futility. Parasites and flowers are two separate entities. They have nothing in common that I can think of. . . other than the fact that they are both of the earth, of course. Describing a flower in terms of a parasite . . . doesn’t add anything to the flower and the incongruity only blurs whatever point you’re trying to make.”
“Of course . . .” laughed Brique. “Cut it out already. There’s no of course. I hate all you . . .” she made a grandiose sweeping motion with her arm, “materialists, scientists, visionless bird watchers. Assumptionists.”
“I’m just starting at square one. A formal introduction with reality. It’s where you have to start if you want to get anywhere. Reality will get a bad first impression of you if you establish yourself on such facetious grounds right off the bat.”
“Better to make a mundane comment on the weather to break the ice first,” Brique said sarcastically.
“If the situation requires it,” conceded Junto.
“All I was trying to tell you is that you look like a flower and you exhibit parasitic traits. Ergo, Junto, you’re a parasitic flower.”
“Of uninspired perception, of course.”
“Exactly.” Brique took another drink from her whisky soda. “Of uninspired perception . . . of course.”
numinous (word of the day)
a frenzied fancy or a languid laugh, a giant gorge and a baffling bath!
he bums me a jack. thanks bro, i say, pulling out the map.
shouldn't be too far now, and then, like two fingers,
our minds do snap.
- kangaroo rock
he bums me a jack. thanks bro, i say, pulling out the map.
shouldn't be too far now, and then, like two fingers,
our minds do snap.
- kangaroo rock
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
the ramblings of a sadistic canine with thumbs and a heart
the lives of those we held so dear bled away like the memories of those days we spent out in the woods with heads full of chemical storms and chimerical visions. but life dawdles onward, like a stranger passing through my yard, taking a short-cut to the seven-eleven on the other side of the forest and clifton road.
oh well, i said, spreading the butterfly's wings taut and holding her to the sunlight so that her wings looked like intricate tapestries woven of thin silk as they filtered the bright light of the star that brings us warmth and day, not to mention an orbit (that's a stupid phrase to use in soliloquy).
what a horrible thing, i thought, if one was to tear her poor wings to confetti and release the pieces in the wind while her stick-like body fell to the ground. such a delicate thing . . . this butterfly held up to Our Star. i let her go whole and she fluttered off erratically and i watched her go, thinking about the world and all the sick possibilities that it makes us consider.
oh well, i said, spreading the butterfly's wings taut and holding her to the sunlight so that her wings looked like intricate tapestries woven of thin silk as they filtered the bright light of the star that brings us warmth and day, not to mention an orbit (that's a stupid phrase to use in soliloquy).
what a horrible thing, i thought, if one was to tear her poor wings to confetti and release the pieces in the wind while her stick-like body fell to the ground. such a delicate thing . . . this butterfly held up to Our Star. i let her go whole and she fluttered off erratically and i watched her go, thinking about the world and all the sick possibilities that it makes us consider.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
snippet of a moment
now rambling on, always weaving, the steady clicks of two long silver needles clacking against each other ringing through the silence of this deserted room, california sunshine drifting in through the windows located on two sides of my squarely defined space, seeing ghosts and laughing with them, they're a rowdy bunch.
Monday, September 28, 2009
riddle
these lyrics having been feasting on my brain for a very long time now and i can't figure them out. they're awful words and i wish i had wrote them:
"I’m looking forward to
a house, a wife and several children
I won’t let any of these pessimists cross my way.
I know money isn’t anything,
that’s why I made a plan
For my life after work
where I can recover…
The telephone is ringing, the telephone is ringing…
I meet my friends from the office
And we swim, play soccer, or golf.
Or I just stay home,
And enjoy my family life.
And yes I care about nature,
That's why I write on recycled paper,
And I separate my trash,
One for food and one for the rest.
The telephone is ringing, the telephone is ringing…
And I know about war and stuff,
I watch it on CNN.
But I truly believe
that the good ones will win at last.
What could I do about it anyway,
I concentrate on my self instead,
And I work as hard as I can
to make the world a better place."
"I’m looking forward to
a house, a wife and several children
I won’t let any of these pessimists cross my way.
I know money isn’t anything,
that’s why I made a plan
For my life after work
where I can recover…
The telephone is ringing, the telephone is ringing…
I meet my friends from the office
And we swim, play soccer, or golf.
Or I just stay home,
And enjoy my family life.
And yes I care about nature,
That's why I write on recycled paper,
And I separate my trash,
One for food and one for the rest.
The telephone is ringing, the telephone is ringing…
And I know about war and stuff,
I watch it on CNN.
But I truly believe
that the good ones will win at last.
What could I do about it anyway,
I concentrate on my self instead,
And I work as hard as I can
to make the world a better place."
screaming into the chasm
hail caesar! we scream
from the land of the dead,
mocking the lives of
the saturnarian bred.
naturally we probe
with the bones of our
fingers like the dusty ashes
of maurovian whispers.
or, now, metonyms of hope
in the thoughts of a hamper,
a washer, a dryer, and
and a bushy-tailed scamper.
hail caesar! we whimper
from the land of the dead,
died of a seizure from
those things that we said.
mucus?
from the land of the dead,
mocking the lives of
the saturnarian bred.
naturally we probe
with the bones of our
fingers like the dusty ashes
of maurovian whispers.
or, now, metonyms of hope
in the thoughts of a hamper,
a washer, a dryer, and
and a bushy-tailed scamper.
hail caesar! we whimper
from the land of the dead,
died of a seizure from
those things that we said.
mucus?
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
television's stream of consciousness like fragments
It’s going to show. We’re walking up the stairs and we’re going to be interviewed. I don’t want my life, which is affecting me, to affect my performance. I am flipping out. It’s Eve. I love Eve. I cannot even function. So what was your inspiration for Fetish? That is fantastic! Oh, you are so beautiful, you’re gorgeous. So is it something that you’d say young people can wear? That is really wonderful, I really like it. You’ll kind of babble on for a little bit and you’ll develop a question. So at any point in your career did you feel like you just couldn’t do it anymore? Will you be having your own store? I said . . . I was nervous, but once I started to ask the questions, the nervousness went away. The winner of this challenge will actually get their interview played on E! I knew going into this challenge that I needed to win it.
It’s nerve-racking because now there’s seven girls left. We’re all going to do our best to make sure this is a nice, clean environment. We’re going to be dead?! I don’t need to be dealing with death right now, I just don’t need this. I’m sitting next to Kahlen and she immediately just folds over and begins sobbing. It’s messed up. Each and every one of you will have to portray one of these deadly sins at the bottom of this eight foot grave. My mind is blank, I just completely go blank.
Is one with the stain remover. New Schick Quatra for Women. 65% more, now that’s an impressive bargain. Is proven to give ten years back to the look of your skin. Start getting ten years back today. We keep our promises. Designed to dry a third faster than other towels, so they spend less time in the dryer. Only at Wal-Mart. Now you can get restaurant style pizza right from your oven. Bruscetta pizza Moire, now that’s fresh. They’re way less expensive and energy saving. If you’re an inventor, we get you, and your passion. We will handle your invention with care. That’s why we’re America
I’ve kind of suppressed it, and this morning it was just like bam! And you have no choice but to address it. What’s wrong, do you want to talk about it? No. Why don’t you take a break? Ok. So who are you? I am sloth. This is something that would appear in something like a high European fashion magazine. We get caught up in all sorts of stuff that slows us down. This . . . I get a sense of sloth. Michelle is a little weird, so she was like this is cool, this is cool, which is weird. This is going to be a lot easier than before. Ok, Michelle, you’re proud, you’re pride. Michelle came across as a beauty queen on acid. This is a hard day for Kahlen. I’m just heart broken. Today, my sin will be greed. I find this a little difficult to get into, because I’m not a greedy person. I don’t want this to look like a circus. I am the sin of lust. And I have to be very sexual. I feel like a beautiful girl, but I don’t feel like a very sexy girl. Picture you’re body as a lust machine. Ok, ten bucks, that’s a little cheap. Oh yeah, there it is, right there. This is the first day we actually got emotion out of Christina, but of course, it’s like pulling teeth. So I tried not to think about it. Wrath has to be anger, but I’m trying not to feel anything right now. Every bit of might in your body, I want to see it. Don’t act it, be it. Like scream.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
a broad smile
Start with a platitude: The more you have, the more that has been taken from you. The equation is never balanced. This is particularly true with memories. The truth is in what is left unsaid. It rests in the double space between sentences, the single spaces between words, the sinewy voids between letters, the enclosed air of an e, or a d, or an a, or an o. U gently slopes up to guide the emptiness toward heaven, V’s broad angles shrapnel out and send the emptiness up to eat heaven alive.
He never went anywhere without at least three dollars in his pocket. This was security. One is vulnerable without at least three dollar’s in one’s pocket. To thee, with thee, for thee, and about thee, never thee unless with a tree, partee!
He never went anywhere without at least three dollars in his pocket. This was security. One is vulnerable without at least three dollar’s in one’s pocket. To thee, with thee, for thee, and about thee, never thee unless with a tree, partee!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Vatalistic
Said vow I vant velieve vou vound ve van vat I vas vooking vor. Of vourse, vou never vee it voming unvil it's voo vate, vee?
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Dreams
Dreams I thought I had
And tossing half-conscious between
Lost in the poltergeists of a night
This strange oneiristic obsession with
Cradling their aphotic forms, slipping
Stripped of the facade of cold winter-
turned into dreams of their own
And tossing half-conscious between
warm morning sheets
shrouded in cold, winter morning light
Lost in the poltergeists of a night
wrought in polished silver shackles
felt so soothing and inviting
in those dreams I thought I had
This strange oneiristic obsession with
fading light,
sunsets and flickering candles
shelters crumbling overhead
& old friends I thought I had lost
Cradling their aphotic forms, slipping
through arms like prison window bars
I knew, I knew, I knew I knew them then
because the way people are in your
dreams
are the way they really are,
Stripped of the facade of cold winter-
morning light, their bodies just
impressions of an unconscious mind,
editing its hallucinations
of
superfluities.
Friday, September 4, 2009
And Last December . . .
Conor, I got it. An overcast sky on a warm day in December, the grey billows overhead floating like glaciers across a sea of thought, a faint breeze moving you towards the blinking lights of tomorrow's beacons that always give you a dreamlike form. Time's no longer caught in the circles that turn like gears on the clocks and seasons, just a steady impetus flowing past unpredictable sights in a land simultaneously recognizable and alien. My hands have been reminding me of continuity, the thread that holds each moment together on the bracelet looped around my ankle. This moment is coming together, a darting finch, wings cutting through air, a definitive train of thought, the emissions trailing away behind, the past lying beneath the surface like the previous coat of paint, the present cracking with every additional layer, yesterday's colors gaze like eyes through a fissure in the fence, they watch you. There's a tree in my mind, bony arms stripped and reaching for the sun, an intrinsic awareness that life flows through light, I'm the wispy consciousness wrapped around a tree of the mind's eye, giving it the pain of thought. Logic. Logic. Logic. Logic. It's all too sterile. Pull out a pack of cigarettes, place one in you mouth, and take it out again. Stare at the tree. Wrap it in the tendrils of thought. Then put the cigarette back in your mouth, taste the touch of saliva that rested on your tongue moments ago, notice that it has changed, it's tepid now from its affair with the external. Logic. Crack flint with the flick of a metallic gear, hear the click resonate, see the flame, hold it to the tip of your cigarette and breathe in, taste the all too familiar rush of smoke, at once new and old, time on a series of circles, but you draw the circles, don't look at the clock, forget what you know about seasons, a warm day in December . . . December . . . you're on THEIR circle. Logic. It's the past sleeping atop the present, my hands still remind me of continuity, I'm the thread that holds the moments together, wrapped around the tree that I haven't taken my mind off of, a finch singing from within the tangle of arms that reach toward the obscured.
Summer in a Briefcase and Point
And now lost, thinking maybe all he ever had was nothing compared to the farther he walked now wanting less than more, a little scared, profane, or to be called profane, vulgar, unpolished, everything that reeked of rough edges, splintery surfaces, the sun baking nothing beneath it until the nights (now colder) dawn next to the void they imitate.
Or to sit down with a pen, as he did, smearing words across a page dotted made nine he couldn’t tell that a year was leaking into an ink splotch around the eyes he drew to resemble caves he fled. Of course, he always opened his eyes to the moment once the moment opened its eyes to him and they had this staring match going until he saw the moment as a mirror . . . a staring match against ?
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Narc
. . . penning notes on the back of a pamphlet he had picked up from the sidewalk of the bus stop. The pamphlet was from the Department of Motor Vehicles and it described the new security measures that the latest identification card exhibited and he scrawled his thoughts over their words so that his words sat atop their linear logic like a superimposed chaos . . . and his words rambled as his thoughts lacked the cogency he imagined them having while they existed solely in his head and he sighed and looked out the window of the bus at the passing sights provided by the cityscape . . . and she looked across the aisle at him and he saw her head move in his periphery so he glanced over at her and their eyes met for a split second before she averted her gaze and he followed suit, turning his attention back to the window, the images floating linearly across its monitor . . . and when he got off at his stop, the bus groaned and moved off down the street. The evening sky was almost dark now, faded to a deep blue and the street lights were lit and the chill of the autumn air crept over him and he zipped up his coat and stuffed his hands into his pockets as he headed down the street. A man approached from further up the sidewalk and he experienced the feeling he always had of being watched as he forced into the proximity another person for no other reason than having to share the same physical plane and so he pretended to be interested in a tree that rose from the ground in a square of soil off to the right of the sidewalk and he thought about how November had stripped it of leaves so that it looked like a skeleton of an irretrievable time. When he judged he was near enough, he looked the approaching man in the face and gave a nod of his head but the man didn’t return the greeting and instead squinted back at him as they passed each other . . .
Love in the Time of Microwaves
Henry scooped the wheat flakes of his cereal slowly into his mouth as he read the morning edition. His wife Beatrice was sitting across the room, watching the morning news on the television as she munched through a buttered English muffin.
"Beatrice," called Henry from the kitchen table, "Have they said anything about Senator O'Nielson?"
"No," yelled Beatrice in reply, "They're just giving the traffic report."
"Huh," Henry nearly screamed across the room, "I'm reading here that O'Nielson was pulled over with a dead child, three pounds of various illicit drugs, and ten thousand dollars in cash . . . all stashed in his trunk."
"Oh my," yelled Beatrice, "That would ruin your day."
"No doubt, no doubt," Henry loudly agreed. "Let me know if they mention it."
"Sure thing, honey!" They both resumed their respective breakfasts.
"Beatrice," called Henry from the kitchen table, "Have they said anything about Senator O'Nielson?"
"No," yelled Beatrice in reply, "They're just giving the traffic report."
"Huh," Henry nearly screamed across the room, "I'm reading here that O'Nielson was pulled over with a dead child, three pounds of various illicit drugs, and ten thousand dollars in cash . . . all stashed in his trunk."
"Oh my," yelled Beatrice, "That would ruin your day."
"No doubt, no doubt," Henry loudly agreed. "Let me know if they mention it."
"Sure thing, honey!" They both resumed their respective breakfasts.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
A Foreign Affair
Christina walked into the storage freezer in the back of the McDonalds she worked at to get some more beef patties. Alan was already in there, standing near the beef. He had been pilfering some frozen supplies while eating a chocolate chip cookie. "Hey, Christina," said Alan, talking through a mouth filled with half-chewed cookie.
"Mmm, Alan," said Christina, looking him in the eyes. A little bit of cookie mush seeped out of the corner of Alan's mouth. Really sexy-like, Christina scooped it up with the tip of her finger. Then she put the cookie mush in her mouth and sucked it down her esophagus. Alan's eye's widened while he pitched tent near his hips. "Mmm, Alan," said Christina again.
Then their manager walked in. "What are you guys doing back here?"
"Uhh, nothing," said Alan. He was embarassed and tried to swallow the rest of his cookie.
"We're playing who wants to eat my half-chewed cookie," Christina informed their manager, who was named Alice.
"I want to eat your half-chewed cookie," said Alice really sexy-like to Alan as she dragged her finger down the crease of his bulging pectorials.
Alan really liked this turn of events, but unfortunately he had swallowed the rest of his cookie.
"I swallowed my cookie," said Alan, "Sorry."
"It was delicious," said Christina, really sexy-like.
"That's too bad," said Alice, really sexy-like.
Alice and Christina started kissing each other. "Oh boy," said Alan. He reached into a box filled with small, frozen sausages. He held them and it was weird because he was watching his colleague make out with his manager while he held frozen sausages in a freezer in the McDonalds he worked at.
Christina stopped kissing Alice, and said to Alan: "Put those sausages away." Alan was confused, but did as he was told and put the sausages back in the box.
"I'm gonna get back to work," he said, pointing in the general direction of the kitchen. He felt really weird and promptly left the freezer.
The three of them never talked about it again.
"Mmm, Alan," said Christina, looking him in the eyes. A little bit of cookie mush seeped out of the corner of Alan's mouth. Really sexy-like, Christina scooped it up with the tip of her finger. Then she put the cookie mush in her mouth and sucked it down her esophagus. Alan's eye's widened while he pitched tent near his hips. "Mmm, Alan," said Christina again.
Then their manager walked in. "What are you guys doing back here?"
"Uhh, nothing," said Alan. He was embarassed and tried to swallow the rest of his cookie.
"We're playing who wants to eat my half-chewed cookie," Christina informed their manager, who was named Alice.
"I want to eat your half-chewed cookie," said Alice really sexy-like to Alan as she dragged her finger down the crease of his bulging pectorials.
Alan really liked this turn of events, but unfortunately he had swallowed the rest of his cookie.
"I swallowed my cookie," said Alan, "Sorry."
"It was delicious," said Christina, really sexy-like.
"That's too bad," said Alice, really sexy-like.
Alice and Christina started kissing each other. "Oh boy," said Alan. He reached into a box filled with small, frozen sausages. He held them and it was weird because he was watching his colleague make out with his manager while he held frozen sausages in a freezer in the McDonalds he worked at.
Christina stopped kissing Alice, and said to Alan: "Put those sausages away." Alan was confused, but did as he was told and put the sausages back in the box.
"I'm gonna get back to work," he said, pointing in the general direction of the kitchen. He felt really weird and promptly left the freezer.
The three of them never talked about it again.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Summation (Act II Scene 1)
Cracked out ::<:=:>:: I'm using my
Prehensile tentacles to roll cigarettes,
Getting slime on everything I touch
As the coffee bubbles out the corners
Of my Mona Lisa
And trickles down my chin.
There's a direct correlation between
the number of coffee stains on my t-
shirt and the number of hours I've
been awake: I manage to spill coffee on
myself roughly once every 2 hrs {{\ge\e g/oll//y m\r./ \\that's a lot//
///o\f //cof\\\\fee//!\\\}} =>
& green eye shadow (curtsy of Ellie) signals
at least 27+ hours of consciousness.
Utilized some southern DRAWL this morning to
Tell the teller at the bank
(as I filled out a withdraw slip) that
I thought she was cute, and I looked up
to see what she thought about it,
and she was staring at her computer screen,
feigning ignorance, so I decided to
I drop it,
and that's how it broke.
^^^^^
*******
{ o o }
blind
______
/ \
{{{{{...............}}}}}
// \\/ / \. \/./\\
_________________
SO, looking ahead to some dusk, I'm thinking that
When I finally need to sleep,
I should curl up on the cedar boards of my porch &,
Like Christmas Wonderland, everything'll be
picturesquely speckled, freckled, almost frosted with ashes.
Prehensile tentacles to roll cigarettes,
Getting slime on everything I touch
As the coffee bubbles out the corners
Of my Mona Lisa
And trickles down my chin.
There's a direct correlation between
the number of coffee stains on my t-
shirt and the number of hours I've
been awake: I manage to spill coffee on
myself roughly once every 2 hrs {{\ge\e g/oll//y m\r./ \\that's a lot//
///o\f //cof\\\\fee//!\\\}} =>
& green eye shadow (curtsy of Ellie) signals
at least 27+ hours of consciousness.
Utilized some southern DRAWL this morning to
Tell the teller at the bank
(as I filled out a withdraw slip) that
I thought she was cute, and I looked up
to see what she thought about it,
and she was staring at her computer screen,
feigning ignorance, so I decided to
I drop it,
and that's how it broke.
^^^^^
*******
{ o o }
blind
______
/ \
{{{{{...............}}}}}
// \\/ / \. \/./\\
_________________
SO, looking ahead to some dusk, I'm thinking that
When I finally need to sleep,
I should curl up on the cedar boards of my porch &,
Like Christmas Wonderland, everything'll be
picturesquely speckled, freckled, almost frosted with ashes.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Conversation in an Alley
The dog said to the cat "Hello, my name is Albert."
And the cat laughed. "Albert, you are a silly thing. Perhaps you need more attention from your owner."
Albert frowned and said "I don't have an owner." A pidgeon flew into the alley where Albert and the cat were talking.
The pidgeon said "What are you two talking about?"
The cat said "Albert doesn't have an owner."
"Hmm," responded the pidgeon with quick darts of its head this way and that, "My name is Terry."
Albert thought the pidgeon was being rather intrusive. "Beat it," he said to Terry.
Instead of the pidgeon leaving, however, the cat pranced off.
"Wait," called Albert after the cat, "I never got your name."
But the cat had disappeared and Albert was left with only Terry for company.
And the cat laughed. "Albert, you are a silly thing. Perhaps you need more attention from your owner."
Albert frowned and said "I don't have an owner." A pidgeon flew into the alley where Albert and the cat were talking.
The pidgeon said "What are you two talking about?"
The cat said "Albert doesn't have an owner."
"Hmm," responded the pidgeon with quick darts of its head this way and that, "My name is Terry."
Albert thought the pidgeon was being rather intrusive. "Beat it," he said to Terry.
Instead of the pidgeon leaving, however, the cat pranced off.
"Wait," called Albert after the cat, "I never got your name."
But the cat had disappeared and Albert was left with only Terry for company.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
A Wonderful New Blog for a Wonderful New Era!
You might be wondering why I started another blog. I might be wondering that as well. We all might be wondering why wondering is such a wondrous feeling.
So go on! Let yourself wonder!
Now that I wonder about it, I wonder if that's why I started another blog . . . to help you wonder along.
Isn't this wonderful?
I wonder what will happen next!
So go on! Let yourself wonder!
Now that I wonder about it, I wonder if that's why I started another blog . . . to help you wonder along.
Isn't this wonderful?
I wonder what will happen next!
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