Saturday, June 7, 2014

THROWN IN A GLITCH

That was not very helpful the voice echoing down the hall getting away from this reminder of the unnecessary left with nothing to recommend itself where he sat at his desk and felt the words back up in his mouth and into his head along the paths tunneling through his skull to resentment and only hearing the echo sliding down the hole of his existence making him gag about to throw up and lift his hands up toward the resigned clouds that bring no water only sand on the back of the neck. Precipice head dented in supposed to match the expected so it will go as planned can't find the basket to hide a flattened votive under names older stick figures could make some faces in a blank space for making some older stick figures only the impressions of lines as the Earth pushes out our lines and footprints erasing our burrowing in time worms dead worms in dead ends.

He left his hat on the floor next to the chair that must have been what happened and then the dog got it took it outside and now it's in a corner of the backyard surrounded by feces and weeds she wanted to apologize for being so technical to him of all people and he was of all people the first to complain or second or third to complain being the first to procrastinate to complain that she was using big words and in her routine that was shackled to his routine like an old train car she decided to tell him to go fuck himself.

Can I talk about her? Can I mention her without there being any room left for her to mention anything about herself? Can she talk about herself? Can she mention anything without there being a stream of emissions at the bottom of the page submissions of expression on her behalf with all of their suggestions for her future for her body where she should go and with who and with what? Can I mention her without them dropping various tools sharpened and unsharpened clean and unclean at the bottom of the page with their directions with their instructions for her?

The bottom line never ends. I have nothing to add. Why should I? All the contributing has squeezed us out fallen out of their back pocket until they discover until they remember us we have been chosen to be stuffed in their back pockets until they stuff their back pockets and we fall out by the road by the road they find us. The bottom line never ends.

She looked up to him. Not because he occupied a higher position well he did occupy a higher position but not in her mind but in the room they had chosen to stay in not that they had chosen to stay in the room perhaps a case could be made that they had chosen to stay in the room in the first place but not that they had chosen to have such difficulty leaving. He spoke down to her not that she was fitted into a lower position even though it could be stated with confidence that she was in a position lower than his or that it could possibly be attributed to how he spoke to her in a manner that suggested he was an arrogant condescending fuckface. 

"Are you stuffing your bra?"
"Are you stuffing your head?"
"With all sorts of nonsense. And you?"
"What is that now?"
"What is what now?"
"Is that actually music?"
"Are you kidding? It's always almost always someone trying to get an answer and not giving the other a chance to finish as well as get their explanation in. Forget that. Why even bother speaking at all? I spend more of my time lately chewing the inside of my lips both of them."
"Both of them?"
"Upper and lower."
"Hide and seek. It was never about whether I was found or not but whether I wanted to be found."
"I was always it."
"I was it and more often than not I would never be found and I'd sit there crouched down in some thick bushes and the fading light of day became engulfed by the darkness of a closed in space where the world was wrinkled tight and the noise of everyone else drowned under the surface of wanting to play when they ran off they ran off and even though I knew they were gone I'd come out slowly from the cover and walk about gently and hesitantly until it left my mind in a puff of smoke of forgetfulness that this day had ever occurred or was taking place and then suddenly there they were playing I guess they gliding along past me and as they all looked around I knew I was still hidden out in the open."
"I was always it."
"What do have there?"
"Some shred."
"Pulled it out of your bra?"
"From my breast."
"Your breast?"
"My left boob to be more precise."
"Is there any blood?"
"Look at the stains on the shred."
"That's red ink."
"Not all of it. Red ink has . . . red ink whatever."
"What were you going to say?"
"Something clever about red ink or so I thought but now I know why my head that the other girls at school used to ridicule is misshapen because it's infested with ellipses."
"Your left breast is misshapen as well. It has that depression right there. That must be where the shred is leaking from."
"Or where the world has pushed down too hard."
"You have to keep backing up into yourself on the other side of a depression. So it's not a shred-filled implant."
"Last dust storm blew this crap into my shirt and bra. Nature is quite the taxidermist."
"It always seemed to me that black ink had more blood mixed into before it was put to paper."

The bottom line never ends. I have nothing to add. Why should I? All the contributing has squeezed us out fallen out of their back pocket until they discover until they remember us we have been chosen to be stuffed in their back pockets until they stuff their back pockets and we fall out by the road by the road they find us. The bottom line never ends.


- Max Stoltenberg

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