Been a while since I posted.
I need a ba- ba- break from writing, from thinking.
maybe what i need is a re- re- turn to feeling . . .
(to the undeniables, yo).
Sacrifice (unedited shitty draft of the Schmoth theme)
I want to write about little
men with pointy sticks
sticking them into your flesh
I want to write about a lover’s quest
involving roses, thorns, and the leaving off of butter —
so that she might fit her write dress.
I want to write about how much the word LOVE means
to me – such that you are asking me
to pick away parts of myself
simply to give you a price.
Which is why I choose to mention these particular things
and instead to concentrate on the sharing of bad news.
I woke up hungover and spent most of the day in a funk.
Then I remembered that a tsunami had happened.
So I watched that tsunami unfold itself silently in a cubicle.
I could not turn on the sound because
I could already hear sounds the sounds of a latin band filtering
through the vent and the cellophane walls. My co-workers were in.
I wonder if they took a moment to think of me.
Sitting there. Listening to grief with my eyes to the screen.
The waves were grey and moody. They played idly with lego ships,
pushing them back and forth. The highway was skinny dipping.
Rooftops had become living rooms –
where scared penguins wore jackets instead of tuxes.
As if spread throughout the City. I saw a small group congregated at the tallest
building. A nind-year old looked over the edge pointing to the destruction below.
I imagine it was her grandmother who held her — keeping her warm and whispering
to her that her parents were out there. Her parents were safe.
They sit there at the dinner table,
picking at seaweed and tuna and pickles. Wordlessly, he considers that he will go
to work tomorrow she thinks about what their child will eat for dinner. They do not speak,
too considerate to occupy the daily space of the other’s mind. When they finish eating,
they do not hold hands but instead fold them in their laps.