Saturday, May 30, 2015

RICE AND FLAT NOTES

He'd say to her nothing it wouldn't arise it would feel like it was filling and then it wouldn't fill it wouldn't feel it wouldn't even think it it he'd say to her nothing and she would disappear one part at a time she'd force herself to play a part be a part a part and part herself and part he'd object and then sit there on the edge of what was her name couldn't hold numbers let alone letters let alone his toes rejected the carpet shaved to stretch as wide as the room needed to shut him into his narrow space between each care surrendering to the blankness of the present shrinking in the midst of the bickering parents of the past and the future they were still here and still now what the fuck difference did it make had they made in his tiny little shaft of a muddled statement dripping with wasted ejaculations he would

severance a new middle name
don't surname me
crumbs and petty looks
falling off the clouded reasoning
torn from angry fucks
knots in your reproductive ideas
and that's all they ended up
not being useful to smoke
rolled up into carbon paper
for burning into dying flowers
dirty water reprocessed by eyes
blinking blinking chicken
in plastic trays dealing out the 
cards unsigned unsent undying
pathetic veins of reminding wipers
rubbing ears flapping vision
into distorted phone calls
think we heard enough
before another one is started
late has arrived the hand 
held up to stop it 
stop some of it
none of it
all of it 
carries on
into the next searing day

fucking food food fucking us deep inside shit it out and call it a devouring some shit we augment only in this way ingredients for the factory minimized and shoved up our ass deep inside our reticence an itinerary for inertia loaded with crap crap cakes frosted with memories of times when recalled dragged out by nightmares and substitutions put in at the last few minutes of darkness before the glare of waking hours slapped us back onto the stage with stiff limbs for tripping over each other repeating unnecessary efforts for numbers for letters she would disappear one part at a time she'd force herself to play a part be a part a part and part herself and part he'd object and then sit there on the edge of what was her name couldn't hold numbers let alone letters let alone his toes rejected the carpet shaved to stretch as wide as the room needed to shut him into his narrow space between each care surrendering to the blankness of the present shrinking in the midst of the bickering parents of the past and the future they were still here and still now what the fuck difference did it make had they made in his tiny little shaft of a muddled statement dripping with wasted ejaculations he would

"Where did you get those?" she asked as she helped her children into the back of her minivan.
"Where did I get these?" he asked as the hot wind blew a note he had written directions on off towards the wash full of trash, weeds, and the excretions of the desert.
"Those are the blue ones. Where did you get those?" she asked closing the back door.
"I think I got them at the place right behind over there in the front along the main strip toward the back," he spoke as his mouth was somewhere else abandoning his mind that emptied of every place he had ever been.
"I don't think so. You probably got the blue ones at the end of that row around the other side. Know what I'm talking about? Never mind," she said turning the ignition and speeding away.
He looked toward the wash to see where the note might have gone where the directions might have blown off to as he walked around the back of the large metal containers and stopped as he reached the edge of the road looking down at where the dirt and sidewalk ended sort of ended and began tugging at the spiked tumbleweed stuck to his left pants leg had some gotten into his sock other sock?

Eyes opened and closed and opened at the smell of bugs and sounds of tuna fish squishing as the head moved around inside or was that paper ripped out of a hand out there outside the dark in here cans surrounded the head listening for the evening of the next darkness to catch up with the dark in here always in here opened or closed eyes opened and closed and opened at the smell of bugs and sounds of tuna fish squishing as the head moved around inside or was that paper ripped out of a hand out there outside the dark in here cans surrounded the head listening for the evening of the next darkness to catch up with the dark in here always.


- Max Stoltenberg

No comments:

Post a Comment