The backyard with piles of bricks and stones disarranged about the place according to a boy's will. His imagination dictating that this stone here must not be there where it is but there where his hand must take it.
The look in his eyes when he looks over the property in the ambitious afternoon. A girl's crying once interrupted the look of unstoppability. Her mother elevated her above the fray in her arms. In a long sigh she said that someone always cries.
He thought, how did that pretty girl get her mother to win the war for her. And without even using her hands. The boy built himself a shelter with the bricks and stones from the little girl. Above the doorway he wrote, you musn't cry.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
The girl burned to death in the fire
The girl burned to death in the fire. In her baptism by fire her will to live was tested and her pain was religious and in her final seconds she saw God's eyes that defied her in those seconds that were like minutes she let out a blood curdling growl that would freeze the blood of Genghis Khan. Her clothes burned off and her elegant graces defined in the light of the flames. Her wonderful skin charred. There she is now, her devil-anger gone and the house just simmering, the thing that happened that would make a devout monk jealous over and the music of the firemen and people and her body in the carbon of the wood and other materials as if it were never anything else like the bark of the tree in the songbird's song.
Before she died the girl in my arms. Her skin and her hair in the sunlight in my arms. Against the world that took from her what it wanted without giving back and exploited her kindness and moved about her too quickly like a pack of wolves that threatened to tear her away with it but couldn't in my arms. I said to her I will take you from this hour to the next like this like birds in flight like a house in a tornado. She without fear limp as a feather in my arms. This beauty created for me for the world to take from her and to appease my will. For me to save and for me to break. She a woman for it and me a man for it.
The red of that sunset that I saw from above the clouds. The sun encased in the horizon like a jewel, like a pearl peaking out from the oyster. War-clouds marching on beneath me to do battle in a hurricane-skirmish too far ahead to see. She was betrayed more than once. She cried after sex and I said go ahead and let it out. My love overabundant like a well overflowing. Something wrong with it. I ran my hand along her back and legs and arms that were for her and along the tender parts that were for me. Her cool skin that glistened. That belied the flames that came from within after all, that destroyed the love that soared for me and for you who aspired to have it, too.
Before she died the girl in my arms. Her skin and her hair in the sunlight in my arms. Against the world that took from her what it wanted without giving back and exploited her kindness and moved about her too quickly like a pack of wolves that threatened to tear her away with it but couldn't in my arms. I said to her I will take you from this hour to the next like this like birds in flight like a house in a tornado. She without fear limp as a feather in my arms. This beauty created for me for the world to take from her and to appease my will. For me to save and for me to break. She a woman for it and me a man for it.
The red of that sunset that I saw from above the clouds. The sun encased in the horizon like a jewel, like a pearl peaking out from the oyster. War-clouds marching on beneath me to do battle in a hurricane-skirmish too far ahead to see. She was betrayed more than once. She cried after sex and I said go ahead and let it out. My love overabundant like a well overflowing. Something wrong with it. I ran my hand along her back and legs and arms that were for her and along the tender parts that were for me. Her cool skin that glistened. That belied the flames that came from within after all, that destroyed the love that soared for me and for you who aspired to have it, too.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
the unscarred soul
The unscarred soul offends her. Lethargy in her thin wrists in her twisted hips. The truly useless vagrant drunk throws how can she do this to herself in your face. This monument to distrust. This unfemale woman. The lovelessness of her ho-hum do-nothing swaying. Devil may care in her gaze but no masculine mystique in her low-hanging mother breasts and in her thin bones. This truly useless drunk from whom you want nothing. Who claims to want nothing from you.
The sight of a child repels her. Like a heretic at the sight of her God. The child's affabilities not endearing it to the woman. If she could get her hands on a child it she'd throw it in the fire. Her own wasted motherhood glaring back at her. Condemning her. Dooming her. She and her tramp friends coconspirators against the essence of a child. They warm their hands over the trash fire and worship unforgivable gods in the night.
Those that know her come in and out of her life. They have no clout with her but one. The devil comes to her in the hiding-dark of the night. His loving gaze her nourishing nectar. Every night she tells him the same story of the drunk ecstasy her lover now, her child now. They don't know the happiness I feel. He tells her that's all right. The woman-drunk wants nothing from you and chases the only ecstasy she knows. The unscarred soul offends her.
The sight of a child repels her. Like a heretic at the sight of her God. The child's affabilities not endearing it to the woman. If she could get her hands on a child it she'd throw it in the fire. Her own wasted motherhood glaring back at her. Condemning her. Dooming her. She and her tramp friends coconspirators against the essence of a child. They warm their hands over the trash fire and worship unforgivable gods in the night.
Those that know her come in and out of her life. They have no clout with her but one. The devil comes to her in the hiding-dark of the night. His loving gaze her nourishing nectar. Every night she tells him the same story of the drunk ecstasy her lover now, her child now. They don't know the happiness I feel. He tells her that's all right. The woman-drunk wants nothing from you and chases the only ecstasy she knows. The unscarred soul offends her.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
So the man was in one of those strange moods and when him and his woman were about to run in from the rain he grabbed her and tackled her and after a while she played along it was one of those things and when they did go in she was all hot and ready and the foreplay was fine but when it came down to it the man couldn't get his dick up. So their relationship entered into another month of misery. The story of this man's life replete with such periods of sadness.
The man sneaks out to see movies when he can. When he watches a movie he's brought back to the place and time of a boy. He looks out from his world at adult life like a movie like everyone has a role like everyone knows what they're doing. Doesn't see the desperate and lonely lives. The man's disillusionment as he lays next to his wife. Sometimes he gets a boner in these moments but he doesn't want to bother her with it.
The man sneaks out to see movies when he can. When he watches a movie he's brought back to the place and time of a boy. He looks out from his world at adult life like a movie like everyone has a role like everyone knows what they're doing. Doesn't see the desperate and lonely lives. The man's disillusionment as he lays next to his wife. Sometimes he gets a boner in these moments but he doesn't want to bother her with it.
Friday, May 7, 2010
One time a woman said I'm the kind of man who would get into a car to kill himself. Nothing to do with the car. Just to have a place to sit and shoot myself. The earthworms in the dirt and the songs of birds vibrating in the air and the neatness of the garden. Soothing to me somehow. Like that in a woman which I pay a dear price to have. The world rotating. And the gears in the clockwork of all the working brains driving on. The instruments of their will do it what takes. But if the wind put a gun to my head, if it told me it was the Devil come to take my life I think I wouldn't mind. This old sperm donor sitting in the car going no where. His woman who knows him better than he knows himself comes in the garage and tells him to come inside and close the garage door. The children who disregard his presence wait at the table for their mother. If the wind put a gun to my head I think I would not mind.
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