She does not want to go. Fourteen years ago on this very day she remained in the chair. Comprehending a master plan she will execute in darkness. The storyboards never remain static. They run incessantly, pushing forward into abysmal clouds. Hatching the plan was the easiest part, it never stayed the same. All she needed was a quest to fulfill, a cardiogram for life, one that soothes her as the illustrated Pillsbury baking instructions did for the other kids. Rarely did she get excited, for excitement was to be come upon not found inside. For the past few days, the temperature had been balmy, and the sea breeze wet with saturated sodium. She could feel the a crust forming on her face. Though not exactly sure where, she enlists all her might in figuring it out.
Another project is in her midst. She licks her lips. Not there. Revelling in cantankerous spirit, the moisture gets sucked out, swathed around orally, then spat out, not immediately of course, but only proceeding oxidization. Length doesn't matter. But of course it does. Hah! Crazy assertions for the other people these are, and they will find out sooner or later. No preference which All heading to the same
Once out, she is free. A wave of terror seizes her muscles, stiffening up, she prays for mercy. Suddenly, the pain is gone. It was not so much the pain, but the thought of the pain that seized her. Long after it was over, the episode, she felt the pain, in her mind, but nevertheless, it was a point in time, one that she was eager to forget.
Another project that. Carry it out too.
Failure to perform according to the plan yielded seizures. Pooh! Blimey! Crikey! Shame. Fill it with shame too. Smash those thoughts, bring it back, and help her so God be true, fail on that too. Carry that out too. Failing to comprehend, she masters the plan. Inasmuch fainting proves her right, she is bound to be wrong, inaccurate they call it. It was my fault, she kept repeating as had heard elsewhere. Far away, a bird chirps and she follows the call. Droopy eyelashes get in her way of clipping the sound. Evertrying hunched-over forward momentum turns damp.
Night fell swoop. Frail and fallen, she got up, put on her sneakers, and trudged. She had not seen daylight since nightfall, and her hair covered up the pink tenderness inhabiting her face. The gallows were awaiting in the opposite direction. Five miles south, she had a family, a pristine farm life. Since the shells arrived, she never was certain if it were there anymore. Cavernous gaps fill her minds eye in the event of a memory resurgence. Thinking about the past precipitated a self-blinding cloud. Each time her recalling effort increased, she would recoil into a deep slumber. Faint she falls on the heathen floor. No one sees her, but the forest knows her presence. Her scent permeates oaken nodules in their rhizomatic bulbarity. Rising, she must continue until the threads of her feet no longer print. The Eric Garners of the world came and left. Ravished the place where soil meets root, for what?
I fell swoop to my knees. The city lights beaming bright into my window. With each car came moving flashes reflecting off window panes onto the bedroom ceiling skyline. I was faced down, but at some point I knew it was time to leave.
Carefully holding my body upright, I let a foot down to reach the landing.
She went away. Totes. Far away I felt her. Shading me. No doubt I came. In retrospect, I had come before. Sheltered and swallowing I arrived, drangled, drost, face in peppered pale ruptures. Felt ashamed, in haste yet basely made to journey. Callis fay non eguri enstan felter con estuarchi. Shillo, no chillo fey may con be with hew. Farkthem no enthem and glory return.
Chillo and Farkas enter the town. All hell breaks loose and pillars turn their backs, blind to the injustice. Facing faring seas. high skies, peltered with snowy bulbous wreckages atop undulating abysmal abodes. Lay in-between he said. I had already obliged. Can't you see what's going on? Fellow showstoppers in doubt about their libidinal prowess. Skanky in the heat of sweat coagulation, floating in the air of intellectual exchanges, Carrie was too young to know.
Callously, she said, picking up the wooden ladle off the countertop, no more fucking a whore. She hadn't meant it, of course, but John, the Baptist, misinterpreted her sense of sly humor, and let it simmer within his half-baked conscience.
She proceeded to topple over the canister of baking soda. The speckles flurried to the floor, disappearing upon contact. In her mind, the unused resources are just as well refuge. Piling it onto the already creamed tiles need not be a sin under the Lord's jurisdiction, but a personalizing gesture, one that seeks affirmation in its transgression.
She dropped it. Lah. Fucking judy couldn't come soon enough. Their mother was late. Arriving only an hour from the moment of anguish, Kate and John were half-siblings- whatever that means, "half what?" I say, "alien?" So it goes that grandma retained her status as queen while the Andies of the world remained complacent in suggestive slumber. Keeling over key lime pie was Kate's left nipple. She looked down and there it was. After 5pm, she entered into her play clothes. This made both nipples protrude, instantly setting off John's libidinal craze that would manifest in some hot sex late at night.
In their liminal state, they sagged, Kate naturally and John undeservingly, for he was a handsome man. To think that at 37 his procreative ability was already thwarted. Too much Jesus i say, all that virgin conception only works when your mothers name is Mary, and that you get divorced, or stay single.
He never thought marriage would transpire in such boring ways. Kate, waiting for the next thing, and him shagging anything that is capable of swallowing a semitumecent organ . Nix that. Fantasies abound in a mind perforated with confusion and pleasure.
This couple is a product of two minutes of contemplation, non-mindful, mind you, and I wrote something down so that I could engage in non-sexual activities.
To end. I use an ABA format, in that callously, I cease to enthrall myself with writing, but instead shed my outer layers and slot myself into a wrapper.
The mic stand floundered. Standing back, I placed my bum deeper into the leather, keeping myself out of the public eye. Looking intently still at the fulcrum spinning, faster in my mind, nonexistent in others'. A body steps in front of me, brazes my shins, spikes my boot-protected toes. I am a spartan for once.
Asserting my existence. The me in my are synonymous. In my head, caspian blows and hell itself rages out, contagion to the world. Its inhabitants flake like enzymatic skin. Unclothed and unsettled in its wart filled landscape. A sea of wrinkles meet the prophet attempting to pass through. Hoods moving like water ripples under a projector washout, nothing escapes, everything roars in fear of being discovered. Take away the eyes, please or else cavernous bodies will make themselves seen, uncouth in their natural state to the naturalized citizens of Utopia.
I fell into a rut. Never got out, but the spoon I have is digging a larger hole, My bed space is twice the size of me now. Fancy that. The sun entered from the Western front, unobliging my nakedness, of soul not body. Carrying me forth into the impending twilight is dirt. Its all over me, quietly sinking itself into my veins. The outer shell hypothesizes an assimilation, transpiration in fact. I am a plant. Says the liar. Spongi and fungi fell swoop over the carcass and out came the shrooms. Nice umbrellas. Not colorful, just the way I like it. Hell no. It's a bird. Perhaps I can catch it with my bare hands. That will make mother proud.
In effect, I have proved myself. Coming of age never was this easy. You only get one chance to get it right. Fail that, and you will dysfunction as an adult. Mal function. Badly function so my Greek goddess girlfriend tells me. But enough about me. First I want to talk about the tribe. How it has changed my life. Secondly, I cannot shut up about this prophet passing through. He is a robe and nothing more. I presume its a he because of his flat chest and straight waist through his bottom-through-thigh cut. They, he, is here to save us. I can't wait. My heart can't stop beating. Now I can hear it, it's louder than my voice.
Fellow Nepotians, he says. Tell me about yourself. Shall you proofread my speech? Can you tell right from left? Friends, I call you that now that you are acquainted with my speech patterns and inflections, I will make an offer you cannot resist. Tell me your thoughts and I will make mine known to you. Everything, verbiage is what I seek and anything less will not suffice.
Now it came. Falsehoods, crayons, and fishing gear. An unlikely mix. A posse of terms associated with all age groups. Fancy that. Creation begets creation, said He. Inasmuch as crayons are the go-to drawing companion, fishing gear makes a longer lasting stay, higher staying power is the means necessary for angels to make house visits. They all say that. That the will to live rests in the power of the angelic. Greater internal manifestation churns up the soul. Or electric shock. Forget it all. Even the cure I told you yesterday, punk.
Stick with them crayons, they provide fun and fodder in the event of a blackout. Stay away from friends during those dark moments, they callously provide information, or, in lesser words, they disseminate falsehoods. Shelter is all you need. Bring along your teddy, and toddy. Ferry in the bacon chips and old newspapers. catch up on the world you do not see but hear about, and rot in bacon grease. Stand up once in a while to ensure blood circulation, but for the most part, remain postrate. If you must, perform ablutions.
Kelly San tells me he has had enough. Fixing cars, hair, his daughter's slip. Too much fuddling for a lifetime, he wants to engage in inert practices. No momentum required, just the downward force of gravity. Ten seconds in, he gets up. Failure.
Can San do what he sets his mind to? Must he hire a trainer, or a guide, or, better yet, mas in line with his name, can he buddha up and invite a theravada monk into his life for enlightenment-attaining purposes. No. None of that non-aescetic rhetoric, San must have the best options. His perfect run must not be ruined.
Four months later, Kelly returns to his one bedroom apartment in Brookline, Mass. Everything is exactly where he left it. Good. But he had kept the kitchen window open. He only does that when the shrimp sauce he uses chokes him up.
The last day he was an inhabitant of room 2A, house number 261 on Elm St, crayons were dislodged from his throat. He ate them when all food seemed too soft and all inorganic items seemed too inorganic.
Falling on his face once more, he accidentally takes a whiff of a former cat pee ring. Hearty. The neurons in his bulging head fire away. He has not had this much action since the fake stove fire. Luckily, no one paid attention when he yelped orgasmically. Fantasy, it seems, is a better place to live than within a house in Tajikimata County, just outside Osaka.