The word "precious" is hereby banned from all conversation in my hearing. Those who, accidentally or otherwise, utter this particular bit of verbiage loud enough for it to ring-tingle my organs of hearing, will within moments find the business end of a pointy stick jabbed swiftly up a nostril and probing surgically for the obviously deviant language center of their brain.
Exceptions include Gollum impressions.
Exceptions include Gollum impressions.
There is a struggle now to say something meaningful, to crunch every word, memory, question, fear, hope, and lima bean into a golden line which could contain her. But that line has already been spoken, and we cling to the echoes of it, knowing that we too must fade, and go to dust, and that all we are and have is frail beyond belief, even though we walk around like we're immortal.
And because there is no running, no bargain, no science and no prayer that can change this, I will walk straight at it and call it a gift, and hope to meet her in some other place.
And because there is no running, no bargain, no science and no prayer that can change this, I will walk straight at it and call it a gift, and hope to meet her in some other place.
Voice message 7:21 am this morning.
Lucid enough to know precisely what she wants, but ironically and tragically unhinged just enough that she can't recognize she's leaving her request on voice mail with complete strangers. Complete strangers who think nothing of posting it on the internet. I'm definitely going to hell for this.
Maybe I've got this all wrong. Maybe she calls a dozen random people every morning, hoping against hope that one of them will show up at her door with tray full of breakfast treats. Maybe one day it will happen.
Good luck to you, crazy lady.
Lucid enough to know precisely what she wants, but ironically and tragically unhinged just enough that she can't recognize she's leaving her request on voice mail with complete strangers. Complete strangers who think nothing of posting it on the internet. I'm definitely going to hell for this.
Maybe I've got this all wrong. Maybe she calls a dozen random people every morning, hoping against hope that one of them will show up at her door with tray full of breakfast treats. Maybe one day it will happen.
Good luck to you, crazy lady.
May your porridge be ever none too thick,
may room service ever hear yer call,
and may you be in heaven half an hour
before the devil knows at all.
the hill-dropped antlers
by the stone the branch
that cracked and fell
to cold are husks that crown
black winter's year
but still the splendid burst that sleeps
the voice of gold within
the creek that runs
beneath the snow
beneath your feet
though wind tears leaf
from limb and strips the light from
dwindled days
you keep the sun, a yolk
a sulphur flint to strike the green ablaze
by the stone the branch
that cracked and fell
to cold are husks that crown
black winter's year
but still the splendid burst that sleeps
the voice of gold within
the creek that runs
beneath the snow
beneath your feet
though wind tears leaf
from limb and strips the light from
dwindled days
you keep the sun, a yolk
a sulphur flint to strike the green ablaze
Imagine the beast, its number
faded like a stick-on tattoo
Each horn droops
10 heads hang heavy,
the swayback whore bleeds for
the cup, each drop falls slow
as dust to dust
the rivers run with black gore
to the sea
The locusts form
in choking swarms
4 figures dance in twister flames:
mene mene
scorch-marks burn
in flowing scripture
on the sands
The sac of heaven
bursts and darkness pours
down every throat while angels fall
in stuka strikes
on swallowed souls
eloi eloi
the flesh is weak
and torn in two
the curtain falls
while deep lots cast in shadow fall
to valleys far below
faded like a stick-on tattoo
Each horn droops
10 heads hang heavy,
the swayback whore bleeds for
the cup, each drop falls slow
as dust to dust
the rivers run with black gore
to the sea
The locusts form
in choking swarms
4 figures dance in twister flames:
mene mene
scorch-marks burn
in flowing scripture
on the sands
The sac of heaven
bursts and darkness pours
down every throat while angels fall
in stuka strikes
on swallowed souls
eloi eloi
the flesh is weak
and torn in two
the curtain falls
while deep lots cast in shadow fall
to valleys far below
