Monday, November 28, 2016

the wordy man





when i was just a little firk
my mama took me to see the wordy man

he hung out on the street
outside the gypsy’s place

where mama went to have her fortune told
every other wednesday

the wordy man was talking up a storm
it was what he did

i had a hard time understanding him
but my mama said that was all right

nothing anybody said made any sense any more
which was why humans had mostly stopped talking

except to order takeout
and have their fortunes told

we went inside
but the gypsy wasn’t there

instead there was a werewolf
packing the gypsy’s things into a trunk lined with red velvet

what happened to the gypsy?
my mama asked the werewolf

it’s a long story, the werewolf replied
not worth repeating

we went back outside
the werewolf had the gypsy’s trunk on his shoulder

and me, my mama, the werewolf and the wordy man
all went down the street to mcdonalds

and we all ordered strawberry smoothies
because we thought the gypsy might drop by

but she never did
not then, or ever

the wordy man kept talking the whole time
but i never did figure out what he was saying



Friday, November 25, 2016

prelude to an interruption, part 2





somewhere, somebody was singing a song.

the song made me weak in the knees.

the waiter stared at my knees, noticing their weakness.

“sometimes, “i told him, “when i wake up in the dead of night, i wonder why the grass isn’t always green, and why the sky isn’t always blue.”

the waiter looked at me funny, like i was some kind of nut.

j j was looking at me too, out of the corner of her nasty eye, like she was about to say something really nasty, even for her.

someday there would be a definite end to her pretensions.

she will wake up in the dead of night, and they will be there… the demons who were born just for her…

but that is enough about j j…

the waiter laughed, a deep mournful laugh that seemed to come from the depths of forgotten aeons…

“you don’t want advice from me, miss… as you see, i am only a servant. only a servant .”

“for now,” he added ominously.

i realized there was still plenty of time to escape. but i just lay there like a slug, waiting…

yes we all had plenty of time to escape… but escape to where?

suddenly there was some sort of commotion out on the lawn… and about time, too…

nobody ever notices such things until they happen.

“don’t tell me the police are here,” betsy drawled languidly. “please don’t tell me the police are here.”

and indeed, some men in dark suits and immaculate white shirts had appeared on the lawn.

they made straight for florian, who was still singing his song to the supine and comatose partygoers.

often when i wake up in the dead of night, i can see them striding purposefully across the green lawn… on the lazy, rainy summer afternoon…

i felt weak

i wished that i, too, was wearing a dark suit and an immaculate white shirt.

and that i was the commander of a vast shadowy army.

but nobody ever asked for my advice.

i was a wicked and abandoned child.

and i had plenty of time to escape.

even from the commanders of vast shadowy armies.

suddenly florian stopped singing his song.

the silence was total, even though it was a lazy summer afternoon and not the dead of night.

“i don’t know what to say.”

“did you hear something?” hadrian suddenly asked.

“i don’t hear anything,” j j told him. “but i see those men in dark suits and immaculate white shirts taking florian away.”

“just because he was singing a song?” asked betsy. “that seems rather rude.”

“it rather shows weakness on the part of the authorities.” said hadrian. “if you ask me.”

we - adrian, hadrian, j j , betsy, and me - still had plenty of time to escape.

it is easy to notice such things afterwards.

long ago, on a lazy summer afternoon.


sources: jane eyre , by charlotte bronte; wuthering heights, by emily bronte; alice’s adventures in wonderland, by lewis carroll; the three impostors, by arthur machen; swann’s way, by marcel proust; the counterfeiters, by andre gide; chivalry, by rafael sabatinni; 1984, by george orwell; vengeance is mine, by mickey spillane; one lonely night, by mickey spillane; on the road, by jack kerouac; the bell jar, by sylvia plath.



prelude to an interruption, part 1





it all began years ago on a lazy summer afternoon.

we were the most beautiful children of the most beautiful parents. the parents who were all still passed out, on the lawns and around the swimming pools and tennis courts and in the upstairs bedrooms, after the celebration of the inauguration of the new… president, or king, or whatever he called himself…

we children had nothing but contempt for politics, as we had for all the activities of our elders.

it was dorian who finally broke the ennui of the day.

he got up and said, “i am leaving.”

nobody objected, so off he went.

that left florian, adrian, hadrian, j j, betsy, and me.

after that, we just lay around in our usual stupor until florian said something.

florian was the chatty cathy of the gang. unlike the rest of us, he never went a whole day without saying something.

“i think we are showing great weakness,” florian said, but nobody answered.

“but you don’t want advice from me,” he continued, and got up and went outside.

he did not understand friendship quite in the same way we did.

i, myself, was the most wicked and abandoned child of the lot.

i saw florian outside, walking around the passed out bodies on the lawn.

“let me sing a song to comfort you,” he sang. florian liked to sing. and dance, too, he was a very energetic boy.

he was always trying to get people to understand him. and to understand themselves, whatever that meant.

he made it too interesting to pass up.

at least he tried. suddenly one of the old ladies lying on the lawn reached out and grabbed his ankle and he fell on top of her.

still singing his song.

after that i stopped watching, because we are all victims.

victims in the rainy afternoon, because just then it started to rain.

i’m a victim, you are a victim, we are all victims.

adrian was the commander of a vast shadowy army.

some day there would be a definite end to his pretensions.

because, after all, what are friends for?

in our dark suits and immaculate white shirts.

just kidding.

but i was the most wicked and abandoned child.

in my dark glasses and immaculate white undies.

nobody ever really notices anything.

if they did, there would definitely be an end to all this nonsense.

a servant arrived, with an interesting tray of drinks and hors-d’oeuvres.

he looked like a victim, like he had seen and done things too terrible to describe.

like he did not understand friendship and loyalty in quite the same way as people like us.

even wicked creatures like myself and the gang.

he was the commander of a vast army of lost souls.

but he didn’t want advice from me.


sources: jane eyre, by charlotte bronte; wuthering heights, by emily bronte; alice’s adventures in wonderland, by lewis carroll; the turn of the screw, by henry james; the counterfeiters, by andre gide; chivalry, by rafael sabatinni; 1984, by george orwell; vengeance is mine, by mickey spillane; one lonely night, by mickey spillane; on the road, by jack kerouac; the bell jar, by sylvia plath.