I tell myself, "You ain't so smart, old bean. You've walked yet more of the see-saw than what is head of you." Schooling and such, yet before, and in front, beset on all sides by the various quiddities and floating emotions of others, flotsam. I yet muddle through, on my own course, whatever that might be.
If you expect nothing, then you never get disappointed. But if you sit outside Rachel's house around midnight, you might yet get what you came for. Wotted things, not written down, unspoken, make their way, somehow, like magic, like when James(Jesus's brother) wore his face on his shirt, a glittering little Da Vinci smile.
Then, ever after it was wrote into the book, "I'm Jesus's brother, James." There were rumblings in modernity, to have found a tomb, with "Brother of Jesus" inscribed on it. They also said, "in the beginning was the word." "Donald stretched the truth to its most thin hairstrand thread possible."
Stanislav. Heaven Trumpets and Devil Trombones.
Zombie Apocalypse. Short on clothes, long on bullets. "The duffel bag that re-killed." Methodist Bible, caught by a stray bullet, pages fluttering along the way, Coronet tearing-ass along, undeterred, big elephant 440 capped with three deuces making kind of a growl at city street speed.
Rachel thinking to shine her ninnies at the Republicans, for sheer spite. Laura's trying to yell over the catcalls, "are those good liberal titties? Are they all like that?"
Later on, sleeping in the backseat, I got tangled-up in the freed brassiere and was kind of taken aback at how is was like wearing a silken straight-jacket.
"I'll watch your car rust."
"I'll eat the brains of your kids' kids."
Juan Pablo Miketoya. The hooch. The lock-up. The clink.
The puzzle house. The "Imaginarium".
White Enamel. Upholstered walls.
The others give you a glare that is both knowing and empty at the same time.
They're saying, over the loudspeaker, "you're free from worry. Free from care. Because you're free from doubt."
The pudding is from a can. The eggs come from a carton. The mixed-fruit jelly comes from a tiny cockroach-sized coffin. The toast is somehow rubbery, lifeless.
You whittle away the day, whittling in your mind at least, pulling at your toenails now and then, in a room that would be small even for an RV.
No comments:
Post a Comment