| From Thrum
Perfidy. Betrayal. Inflatable legs. You are in your thirties. Whine from the heliport is constant. They've got some new kind of surveillance worked out there. My neighbor is a blond kid, skinny knees. He got caught up in this thing. Basket case. Tripped and no stair caught him. He heard a vague threat. Took every hill. Soaked the cloud in chemical and wrung it down. It was a consipiracy. Hustler of trees by day, cleaner of slates by early morning light. Day came closer, yes, perfidy approached. Terminus bristled in a so so enactment of a meltdown in the salivary engine of the sense of loss. Sloppy revolution of a partially melted gear. A whir interrupted by a conversation. Husserl halibut saturate amateur. Blastula creeping under statistical wall sent by a humdinger of a president. Outlawed by several invincible foes. Teller of misfortune. Sharer of the meat of pumpkin. What can window do about this mess? What can we winnow out. Taker of tickets, murderer of trees. Seldom such calumny. Portion out the underlying deceit. Siphon off the frightened waters. A hundred expanding metals. Now the fire in the window. Cantor, you pall. Forget I mentioned your meadow, your weevils. Mantis' mandibles. The whole field on fire. Sky comes down closer to the furrow and drops a pocket of droplets from which, autochthonous, come the sowers of whatever it is you taste now. He'll die within the year and you'll be bunching up your stomach in your palms for the hungry sorrow and silt of it. Visually, a grand duke. Aurally, a flying sheet with pillow and caffeine. Tactile report: the center has retreated and the edges puff and crack. A line of cells surrounding a soft center coding for life. Henchmen are another expression of lust. Silence is a strangling of the urge to play. A quiet hand is one that isn't twisting a towel, a birdneck, or a waterbearer. Go on. In several rotations the bunch of grapes fastened by a stream of sweat to a plastic globe will break off and hurtle in a hysterical trajectory toward an innocent. Who can guarantee a satisfactory resolve? The train passed this time yesterday. I hear it now, a family of geese, a fence to keep them out, and a ruminating murder inside the house. The cabal of engines. Misjudgment. The wound. Poor visibility. Ask for mercy receive a fish. Ask for peace. Rich cache of protein the node the pouch the flower the medicine the hurt arm the split garnet. Screen is filtering light light comes daily molecules gather spin. The distance an average molecule travels before hitting another is the time elapsed between the probability of the event occuring at all. Particulate sediment. Acorn whizzing out to Maryland. The houses have been uprooted and the driveway moved. You can float now, it's ok. We were trying to start the engine of a fragile helicoptor. A young girl ran up with a sweater in case of crash in cold climate. Crackers were stored. Back and forth we rocked, like a motel, every moment expecting the slice on the back of the neck. Meanwhile, a branch was pushed to the window by the wind and, without looking, one would not be able to distinguish a fiber from a bird. The branches were launched into the light like a mote blown into the crevice of a disintegrating shutter. Only four days after the deaths did the report come in, filled with ludicrous misstatements, distortions and innuendoes. Tour guide body guard or apple seller? Two large glass globes with smooth-lipped apertures opening up above. Propmaster. Industrial sabateour or animal trainer. The harmless people of god. Grant applicant. Tubercular horse. Spiny or horned greb. Steps to the beach. Avoid all perternatural gibbonish portly men in tumbling hutches graining the surface of a shining bodice. Lazy bum. Could have gone to prison for a year. Silk bottom. I die when I wake. Blithely hand the man a $1 bill. Hook me up with a ribald sad witch of a salesman in heat with the gulp of a nonplussed handgun. Watch two matchsticks contend for the prize. A globule of red squeezes out. Portentious. Extremely hardhit with 1/15th of a wanderlust. I thought he was a saint, but he was only disingenuous. He washes his turban in the blue water under a decaying bridge. Chortle. What you say depends on who hears it. Screen door. The day is laced with fire, laced with a dread harboring a gargantuan itch in your wandering eye. Sojourn hop in a gogo rapture. Hazy mix nor would engine be late. The whole earth is separating at the seams of magma and crust. Horse radish. Cantata for 3 horns and a hoof. Patch of dry skin. Loose on your toes. Move along to the right till the aftersmell fades. Her pink flower wets itself. The striped tender of the beach incurred. Clues in my round firestarter are all around. Be kind to animals. The wasp pinned between the panes of occlusion, nervous veins of plastic mimicing biological process, the factory of the leaf, external, undeviating and final. Be kind to animals. No wash away. No vision of a clean home. Exit the childhoods for a new one, lived through all past and future lives. I have the stones I love, malachite and leopard agate. Be kind to the animals who disturb the fastidious order of the home, the ant & millipede & spider & centipede & mouse & red mite & fat, blood mite & roach & cat. The world endlessly recreates its topographies with particles I labor to eradicate. I must harm. Harm and release my life from the clutches of my own grasp. Life should not be bitter. Hair inky, we oar like divers lashing over volute elisians. Tender occlusion's kiln inside your sinking skeleton, your sweet self's always lonely, like onyx, vole, ermine. Ravishing! I must live and harm. The complex nodes. The omnitones, the action adventure. "I would like," I said to the inexplicable creature in whose cup I dangled fearlessly, "to desire and consume only what's necessary and no more. I want a rest from gulping coffee, changing clothes, showering, preparing food, vacuuming, buying and throwing stuff away, looking in mirrors, twitching, chewing, tapping, getting insulted, apologizing." The creature's voice came from the direction of the eye underneath me: "What seems like a bunch of tics to you is your body driving you to get what you need but don't know enough to look for. You've got to remember that nature is extravagant Excess is normal and you can't cut it out of your life." "But I want to live more simply," I said. "It's not possible to honestly articulate such a desire." the creature answered. © Noemie Maxwell |