Posts Tagged 100 Words
Under the supposed sound of rain, we are all dry, waiting for that time long ago when the sister of the famous tennis player drove her H3 off the cliff and landed, making a puff, coming back as a big bus that presently roils our nerves as we know we should be in another place where better things are happening to people of good will who are too self-centered to realize how blessed the air has been to them, and the bus, it steals our memories of good and inspires our fears of future.
The delicate lady crosses the street.
Crossing vessels and long rods made of metals that won’t digest readily and sit sweetly on my tongue while my brain swarms around the vast crater left by all of the angles of the architects who made me feel worthless. The architects leave their marks all around me. I feel it through my body that first thought that would be that this building is ugly or that building is a scar on my landscape, but now they are all beautiful, they are perfect, and my crater swells because I don’t have any marks to leave. I should take crabby photos.
It roams quietly around the room. People are smooth, looking down, rubbing chins, playing with wrinkles in pants, and one picking dog poo off of his shoe.
Some know the truth. Some only know experience. The truth floats around the room like god, spectating at all of the confusion, smelling the burnt coffee and the elephant dung aroma from clothes melted too often with stale Lucky Strike smoke.
The truth tries to fire herself out of the stories, out of the experiences which should act like a lighthouse, pointing distinctly at herself, at the shitty, moving, but distinctly singular truth.
Julie whines. She wants to quit the booze, but she doesn’t want nightmares. The dryer never stops tumbling. The medal clank of the chains that she uses as belts tell her that Patsy is not dead, but Patsy is dead. Julie’s nightmares show her the mice that are munching on Patsy’s body and then spitting out the pieces because Patsy died of an alcohol overdose and her flesh is sickening. Julie hates that she let this happen to Patsy. Patsy said, “No way” to the hospital. “Let me die or let me explode.” Julie dreams of her own miserable death.
No airplanes, relief, loud buses, no diesel, sharp angles sheathing the crisp heat of the Missouri summer. Wood, brown, more wood framing his mind in this antiquity that sends chills through a chair with crappy arms. Quiet. No rummaging of voices, but nice rumbling of distant tires and revved engines. Saved from death.
One smile and then another smile. Pain in the ass but polite, so tolerable. High walls save others from disgust, allow slithering through soothing environment toward two refrigerators that preserve the essence of a day long ago when cigar smoke hovered over the deals of the gods.
You have this terrific fear. You are weak and you are of no consequence. You think it is important that people like you. They never like you and when they show the most distinctive displeasure, you cower like a sick little mouse, poisoned, about to die. Why don’t you go crawl into a valley of thick trees where you will never see the peoples’ expressions of disgust? Why don’t you? Please. Quit letting the others weigh on you. They won’t miss you. One day when they’re singing, they’ll be glad you’re gone. You could go fast, crash hard. Bonjour, m’lad.
I listened carefully. Parish. They have reunions. He said helacious drinking. It was 50 years. When 68, do some drink helacious? Helaciously. I drank helacious(ly) 15 to 41, a brilliant downhill stretch. Glorious – I don’t remember much.
Go, don’t go. Purpose: laugh and watch grand pianos swim in the pool with giant bottles of vodka. Don’t go, but what about sister? Go see sister. Stay home on couch with a book – Imagine the whole world doing butterfly inside your head. Nothing outside of your home means a fucking thing. That’s what I like. Stay home. Read. Pray.
Jerry is leaving, peaceful. Good day, productive, boss thought he was leaving too early but today is shrink day. Jerry likes leaving 45 minutes for that drive but he left 40 today. Tool Band. Air conditioner is too damned not cold. Music too loud. Good. Made a bunch of greens. This red and he brings out his latest poetry book. Inspired, breathing slowly, happy. No rush hour madness today. Breathing deeply, big happy chemicals from book. Jerry is a dry sponge and each vicious driver is filling him up, wet with evil meanness. Jerry will be bad-ass, protect his space.
Pardon me, but these fuckers, they’re buying blotto tickets and they’re fucking with my serenity. Moving my bright red mop bucket for an emergency and they act like I got nothing to do but wait for them. I say excuse me, but they can tell I’m just a retired railroad worker. Not really, bastards fired me for sleeping on the job. I was too old to get anything but dragging the mop at this 20 trillion square foot grocery store. Heading for the Indian spice aisle that makes me puke to pick up some used diaper some shithead left there.
I swarm and I can smile. Pants are baggy, shoes creaky and cracked. Need new shoes. Why would I wear a coat when it’s 95 degrees? Peoples’ faith is so tentative, and I wonder why the dismissal is wicked. In some ways, I’m a master, and they’ll miss me. I wrap things honestly. Maybe there’s too much medicine, maybe I’m a dog. If I’m not in the dungeon, is it too much? Sealed from the airplane. I swear it is an airplane, and it haunts me terribly. Fly me away while I’m smiling in my blue suit, eating plastic food.