Sunday, October 24, 2010

Stories from Second Grade

ha aha hah aha h I just found these stories at my mum's house. I wrote these in grade 2. In 1978.


If I Were a Ten Cent Piece


Sunday, October 10, 2010

Holes in You

His words are drill bits, rotating, poking so many holes in you. The torque and axial force, spinning verbatim,  breaking the skin, tearing through your muscles and veins and blood and organs and brains. Your bones are shattering and it hurts.

And when the words stop, the taste of titanium nitride lingers on his tongue, in your mouth and in your throat. You are affixed to a wall, a small picture of the wide open ocean. And battling the waves within the painting is a sinking boat in a storm. The sails are torn and the mast has snapped. Too far out, can't get back. Everyone on board will certainly drown.

But he'll stop drilling, God willing, and eventually take on other projects. The screws will loosen, over time, and you and your picture will drop to the ground to be found one day by the workman's brother: a silent man who talks with his hands and then you will finally understand the beauty of language.

Wednesday, October 06, 2010

About Girls About Women

Known a few girls, been with some women. Don't understand them, guess that's a given but sometimes I catch a glimpse and it's real. The dancing chimps, the boys and the men doing the things over and again, they don't see it, they don't know, cold mornings pissing in the snow while the girls and the women inside of the house and inside of themselves are warm and thinking and not scared of that mouse but screaming out loud, not scheming or tricking but what has happened to Daryl Hannah's face? It was weird to begin with but now and holy cow this is how they do it. Just when the locks are tumbling into words from the mumbling the birds start chirping and the girls and the women are back under the covers calling their mothers, seducing their lovers and it's okay and it's good. But the girls and the women are like ancient trees in a Sicilian forest, Chestnut Trees of One Hundred Horses and all I can see is the wood. A table, a chair with pretty hair and maybe the boys and the men don't even care but I want to tie a rope to the branches and swing back and forth until I have counted all of the leaves above. 

If it was me I'd never cut down a tree just to count the rings in its trunk. But the ramus supporting my rope will eventually crack and I'll be back in the snow with the rest of the boys and the rest of the men. Not trees any more, the girls and the women are springs, water from the mountains or jumping things. If only I could stretch them out and lay them flat, maybe they would recoil with me in the middle. But the riddle about girls, about women remains. And whether the sun shines or the heavens give rain, I'll always enjoy playing these games. I'm in love. 

Monday, October 04, 2010

Got No Soul

Got no soul, I'm a butterfly. Little girl's gonna catch me and watch me die. Ask her mum where I went:

"Not up to heaven because he wouldn't repent."

"What about hell where the bad folks are sent?"

"Just a ball of dust is all," she'll say, "now go back outside and play."

Little girl will look up at the sky to see if she can find another butterfly pretty as me.

Sunday, October 03, 2010

Kid Can't Dance

Okay, yeah he's alright. Kid can't dance and his pants are too tight but his eyes they shine like diamonds when he looks at her and he buys her flowers and opens the door, nothing like the guys she's been with before. Kinda weird I guess that chin beard and leather jacket and country shirts and jeans tucked into his boots and his hair all combed down to the side but the little things like letting her drive and choose the movie and I bet he goes downtown when they're getting groovy. And she's happy in her face and in her brain not just smiling to cover the pain but actually calm and comfortable and so happy deep down inside her guts and I'm telling you this as someone who used to think that slut was nuts. She's a different person now but the same, better like a cloud that dumped all its rain and he is the reason why she is no longer batshit insane.

She's in the present, now, wrapped up with a silk ribbon and a purple bow and I need to open the box. There's something in the future that I've seen in the past. I've got to tell her that this thing, this kid, it's not going to last. He'll change and it might be tomorrow or next year or in ten, I can't really say exactly when but one day he'll wake up and instead of fetching coffee he'll tuck back in and think "what the fuck am I lacking" and he'll realize that nothing is ever about him. He won't go with her to Ikea because he's sleeping in. He'll masturbate then put on that t-shirt she hates that says "I play to win."

She won't notice of course or she'll make excuses and when they're married he'll make jokes about whips and nooses and they'll have some kids and get divorced. Better that I tell her now I guess that this kid who she thinks is more will end up less. "Take a deep breathe," I'll say, "count up to three. There'll be someone else, someone better, just wait and see." Then one day I'll get down on one knee and tell her that someone is me. And I can dance.
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