I met a hermit walking my way while on my way to the grocery store. He asked me for some change, and I told him no. Then he slapped me in the face and said, “Don’t you ever tell me no like that again!” I slapped him back, and said, “Okay!”
He told me his name was missing, and that he was stupid. I misunderstood him deliberately and called him Miss Thing, then added that if he was stupid then what is he now? His eyes shot open in horror and darted right back at me, “Bull’s eye, man! Bull’s eye! I was stupid,” he growled, “WAS! And now I’m now!”
“Now you are!” I agreed. “You are now, not what you were before!”
The hermit scratched a scab on his head which flaked off as it was pinched between his fingerskin and fingernail. He held it up to the sunlight and showed it to me. “Behold! A piece of me has formed an end! And today I have a witness! Make a wish!”
I wished for a silly thing. I wished for a naked man to be laying on one of the conveyor counters at the checkout lanes, using his toes to move himself back or forward. I was thinking about how I would imagine such a scene—about how it would look and whether or not the naked man would be attractive—and just when I was about to see him scooting back and forth, the hermit whispered, “Snap out of it man! Make your wish quick before my nail loses it’s grip! Uup! There it goes! You better follow it! It leads you to where your wish will come true!”
“Which way did it go? I missed it!” It was windy and there were all kinds of scabs flying around already. The hermit pointed towards my nose and coughed in my face without covering up his mouth. Some of his spit flipped out on my jacket and started soaking into it. It burrowed deep into the fibers and hid there forever. “Miss Thing, I see it now, I’ve got to go chase it before it gets away!”
16 June 2011
Fowl Appetite
Ancient thing like a chicken wing eaten a million years ago, back when chickens were wild-eyed creatures, paranoid of being killed by an insect the size of a dinosaur to you or me. They were crazy looking creatures—more like lizards with long hairs sticking out of their skin-bumps, tickling the ground with their beak-teeth snapin' at seeds, combing the ground underneath the mega-gigantic trees.
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
Buzzard bugs they are a comin'!
Skree! Skree! Skree! Scream the chicken guts! Scree! Scree! Scree! Eat the chicken up! And lick the chicken that's left stickin' to the bottoms of thier bug feet! Feeler licking good! Can you feel me? Cause the chicken bones don't lie, they wait and they wait 'till they're pressed deep enough into the earth to make a lasting impression turn into a fossilized escape.
Birds of a feather flock together so the ones on the outside get eaten first. Stay close to the middle where you're safe from the threat of going missing in the night—taken by an insect with a fowl appetite for raw chicken meat.
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
Buzzard bugs they are a comin'!
Skree! Skree! Skree! Scream the chicken guts! Scree! Scree! Scree! Eat the chicken up! And lick the chicken that's left stickin' to the bottoms of thier bug feet! Feeler licking good! Can you feel me? Cause the chicken bones don't lie, they wait and they wait 'till they're pressed deep enough into the earth to make a lasting impression turn into a fossilized escape.
Birds of a feather flock together so the ones on the outside get eaten first. Stay close to the middle where you're safe from the threat of going missing in the night—taken by an insect with a fowl appetite for raw chicken meat.
08 June 2011
Drip Drop
I want to twist and turn my thoughts into something else and squeeze out the guts of my imagination onto the floor. It spills and splashes—burns like acid, eating away at the floorboards—sizzling, bubbling, melting, dripping—opening up the underside to the world underneath. It’s cold down there, and dark, and smells like breath in the wintertime. I spit into it to see how far it goes, but I missed and hit my shoe. So I try again, this time with a string of spit brought up from the back of my throat, spit out slow so I can watch where it goes.
Drip!
The spit-string breaks. One end slaps me in the face, while the other falls.
It’s still falling, or it fell too far to hear land. I’ll drop a penny down instead.
Drop!
It won’t go in! It’s stuck to the floor like the hole wasn’t there, or maybe covered with an invisible film, or just covered in a coat of paint to make it look like an imaginary acid hole.
Nope! It’s a trap! I tried to pick the penny up and fell in it! But luckily my legs caught me before it was too late. I’m hanging from them head-first into this bottomless black pit.
Drip!
The spit-string breaks. One end slaps me in the face, while the other falls.
It’s still falling, or it fell too far to hear land. I’ll drop a penny down instead.
Drop!
It won’t go in! It’s stuck to the floor like the hole wasn’t there, or maybe covered with an invisible film, or just covered in a coat of paint to make it look like an imaginary acid hole.
Nope! It’s a trap! I tried to pick the penny up and fell in it! But luckily my legs caught me before it was too late. I’m hanging from them head-first into this bottomless black pit.
Making This Happen
For the love of writing and all things worded in strange and wondrous ways, I begin again.
