Monthly Archives: February 2011

So much beauty in dirt

It’s ok that I am going out like a candle.  Clean metaphors like pressed clothes, all of them fine makes addressed, a permanently raised glass, love, on a ship perhaps, the world waving, or the best of them.  It is not ok that it is the world that’s leaving me.

I hand my teeth down, no one takes them, there are no college kids left to believe in strangers anymore, take up their flags, ensorcelled by seeming context & strange nocturnal tuitions paid in dissent, rapture and yes, amelioration.

This place has stayed neat with me in it.  I have protected things… things of which you can have no idea, things whose ideas will not come again, their valkyries fled, a diaspora of gods, kings and vassals, the whole parade of these my insignificant things.  They were my wine, my rope to hang myself with.

I will not imagine you.  I was imagined.  I will not simper, the shakiest hand in the riot, I will not ease meekly, subdued to wait a time for meaning, for museum glass, nitrogen filled air, greater value indeed, greater than needed.  You will pass me like so much meaning in dirt.

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You should go inside and get that off your shirt RW

“Ok, so it’s a small person, what are you going to do?” I tell her.  She is looking at it now in what I guess would be new light.  The tiny new mechanisms of a cognition now her own, lurching and firing, I imagine the sound of ladyfingers popping, just that, no engine humming or roaring just a cacophony of false starts.  It is clear to all that someone else has dressed her.

“Get away from him.” She is now standing between me and the small person.  The small person is about the size of a mini candy bar, no really.  I have heard of shit like this before, in the rainforest, it’s always in the rainforest right, well anyway, it probably walked here.  That’s kind of like saying your 50 in dog years, or maybe that’s not what I mean to say, I guess I just mean it would take a hell of a lot longer for that little candy bar sized nude-kin to get here from Ecuador than it would me, or even Cindy Lou here for that matter.  I would tease her but like so much else that is lost on a twelve year old, it’s just lost on a twelve year old.

“That’s right, now pick him up and hold him to your chest and coo and get your face right down in his.  Yeah, show him the teeth when you smile, thats it.  Listen, if that little fucker had a gun that could kill everything this big, he would kill everything this big, you have no idea.  And if he was this big, as big as you and I, he would just walk away from you thinking you were a stupid little girl like all these assholes who have passed us in the last 15.”  I know I am ranting but I can’t stop, I didn’t, thats important.  She is begging to cry or has been and I have just noticed.  It’s like a phobia, the crying, for me it is, and she is doing it.  At least its genuine.

“That’s not true.” She asks me and looks at the small person being held, no pressed in some suborned refute of my accusation and I mean spleen rupturingly tight against her training bra trapped, rubbery, pre-pubescent boob-ola.  That’s where they always put ‘em.  I can’t see that small face from here.  I assume there is a fluid on her shirt and a smell.  If I was being viced into pre-tits like that I would have fluid coming out of my mouth too.  Maybe his guts came out his mouth, I don’t know.  I imagine my guts coming out of my mouth.  She drops him, or swats him off of her, like when you are holding a bug you don’t think will bite you, letting it perch and what not, then it bites you or makes one of those hideouse terrifying hostile bug noise s, and maybe it did only it sounded like hello or i can’t breath, and too low to hear or even too high like adog whistle, and then maybe panick too, on her part, I know I would and then getting it away from me as fast as f-ing possible would be the only answer now, not playing with the afore mentioned and previously harmless well-seeming “bug”.  It happens as I say it will, as I say it in my mind.  I say wow out loud so that someone, someday…  “Wow.”.  Anyway, it moves a little on the pavement then doesn’t.

“It’s too big to step on.” I say.  She nods looking at its little naked but.  And by too big I mean it has eyes, arms it could raise to try to stop you, however ineffectually, a face that will show fear if you are close enough made more convincing/sympathetic by stain of guts on same face showing fear etc.  In that way its too big, fuck, anyone can step on a candy bar.


You are not in this story, though you should be.

“I have a mannerism.”

“Hmm?”

“A Mannerism, th at’s why I’m here.”

The man with the polite blue windbreaker shakes his head yes.

“You?”

The man in the polite blue windbreaker now shakes his head no.  He turns to look at the receptionist, but she, coolly beyond giving aid, acknowledgement, anything, you, me, pain, all of it beneath her, does not see any of us and for that matter might as well not exist, and yet, inexplicably and unfairly she does, and it is a painful triumph over the rest of us.

A woman enters the office from that door.  All heads look up.  The man in the polite blue windbreaker who was moving deeper into nervousness stands, smiles genuinely, moves in one step toward the woman who has come from behind the door and kisses her on the cheek, hands her her lunch, an act that anesthetizes us all from hearing anything further spoken between them, or hearing it like movie theater talk, we enthralled now disdain and sublet his cast off anxiety from the room, take our turns with it each, until, like so many things, it is reduced, traded down for and against, lost in the friction of glances that puerile anemia of the heart, that grief, that stolen grief.  And stolen for what?  “And stolen for what?”

“I’m here for a mannerism too.” A smaller man who looks exactly like you think he does, says to me, I who only just exclaimed so openly about my own mannerism, confided and nothing short of hoped for an outcome of its communication, anything.  I a man stolen from.  He is looking at me as I turn to look though the glasses on his small sweat sticky face and I tell him, I say…

“Shut the fuck up.”

And the man who looks exactly like you think he does, does.