Blind dazily into deserted street walks over for a conversation. My head looks up. Hey blind. Is it goin any different today. He reckons it isn’t. Tractors got the same hell in’m they had yesterday. There ain’t gonna be any produce this harvest weekend.
How many chickens we got left, I ask him. He don’t know. Well is it gonna be enough to make due for the dinner, I say then. He shrugs.
Well then I magine you’ll be lookin for somethin to serve. He looks up, his unfortunate, sunk in cheeks reflecting sunlight. Boy’s got one slim neck. Could be broken in the split of a second.
It’s plenty: (didn’t quite see his lips move just then).
Glare. Sunlight hung in the humid air, swirling trace paths of commotion. It was time waiting, it wasn’t either of us was gonna say anything. We just looked, back and forth between us, seein if the other might have reason to turn lip. But neither of us did; we got set to go back to work, and we did. There wan’t ever a fight that day boss, there wan’t ever a fight. I say it simply as I can.
cf. “Crook’d”, ca. 9/05 (pinkos archives)
June 4th, 2007 | #
none of this here dirt is from earth, anyway.
June 9th, 2007 | #
the glare doesn’t set when the sun does. the mountains keep it afloat, with their peaks.
June 9th, 2007 | #
we never did fought that boss, because i was self employed, and i was his employee.
June 9th, 2007 | #
exactly
June 9th, 2007 | #
also, read the title backwards
June 9th, 2007 | #
can we get rid of this ugly pink background? i’m down for white. no offense on your aesthetic choices, sturgeon.
June 9th, 2007 | #
ok ill switch it up
i thought it looked like a womb
June 9th, 2007 | #
The absinth of mind strikes its
mellifluous chord at random: this
is the source of confusion in the
seeking soul. Why here. Why this
exact moment. (And so what is a
revelation.) It rises out of this
watery shell, within it, it implodes,
and a small void forms.
What was that? the mind asks. What did
you say? The thought still presents
itself, but it is utterly insubstantial. It
is pure form. And so void. A rupture
within that quakes and promptly closes.
Remembered thereafter like a drugged
dream, recurring in small shocks. Our
sensitive stock of machinery is bewildered.
Seismographic dials tilt wildly,
and the reading on the counter shows only
888888888888888
June 11th, 2007 | #