a place for me to empty the sand from my sneakers
You, traveller from an antique land, have stumbled upon something. No, not a stone under your feet, nor any other such lifeless thing; something else. I don’t know what it is yet. I hope it grows, flourishes, sustained with daily watering.
You have to look really closely to see people this small.
Whatever this may be, let it thrive. Become anything but an annihilated place.
she wept as clouds do rain for may flowers, though she would be getting none
no valley lilies and no velvet-petalled roses
her eyes dried up, shrivelled, fell out into her palms
like dead wasps
but he buried them in a puddle of sunlight so she’d never see darkness again
—mon visage!
—ta figure!
thus they heckled, those hecklers, with their crossbows and daggers, bows and bayonets, riding horseback through marshmallow mountains and mountainous marshes
then a will-o-wisp fell in love with her red hair
he poured water over her the day after easter
but who likes the way ‘rhinoceros’ is spelt anyway? they wanted to go wester but the electric city’s electric currents blocked them, and the next power outage wasn’t due until after the gibbous waxed
so they furloughed the impasse city, ploughed the carbon soil with yoke on ox, stopped at the cabinet door of a large wooded area
and the great veins, tendons, vines, lush jungles of bush and snakes were all cut by a tang’s tail in two nights
but yes velveteen slacks and yes corduroy vests were on the menu, sir, i ordered them
not one, not three in stock right now, said the mailman who slept in a milk bottle
One year has crept, snuck, slithered by. I feel like, as if, as though, I’m orating to a vacant beer hall, one with dusty tables and upset chairs. Its windows, however, are all intact, still paned, still numerous, poor guards against the bleak yellow light desiring to pour in.
What have I done? Not enough writing; that’s certain. Not enough reading, either. Kerouac and Salinger and Danielewski guiltily staring me down from their highfalutin bookshelves while I’m chipping away at the logical syntax of math textbooks. I have forgotten what real English tastes like. But I’m almost done. A few weeks remain. I’ll encounter thee yet.
“that damned soul! what a poor man. he just clings. that’s all he does! he just clings onto that damn relict of a wistful memory. senseless! useless! she’s an awful woman, awful, i say! going around, talkin’ about him like that, stealin’ his money, sleepin’ around behind his back.” he raised his cigarette up to his mouth and took a long, audible drag. plucking it from his mouth and dropping his hand onto the armrest a bit too abruptly, he closed his eyes and sunk his head into the maroon leather around him.
across the room, she shifted on the edge of her sofa. her legs were crossed. she wore a large-brimmed hat, black heels, a short red dress; she clutched a small purse. he snapped his head forward and faced her again. less loudly this time, he talked at her again. “what an oaf. a helpless fool. just blind.” he expired a great sigh and stared at the column of ash now growing on his cigarette.
she shifted again, with visible unease this time. the column of ash toppled onto the wooden floor. “is he in his room now?” she spoke with a politely airy tone. “sleeping?”
“yes. thank god he’s sleepin’.”
in the back of the smoke-filled room was a door, behind which listened the man in question.
he stood there, by the statue. it was one of a caped warrior, knees bent, gaze focused, scantly clothed; he was hiding his upper torso behind a shield not dissimilar from an aspis, and his right hand clutched, never to let go, a stout gladius.
the middle-aged man was not looking at it. he was staring ahead, looking at nothing in particular. his grey-blue eyes gleamed a little whenever the sun peeked its head out from behind the overcast sky. he didn’t really notice the periodic gusts of wind whose buffets made him sway from side to side. around his neck was slung a camera strap; he was holding with both hands the little plastic box at his belly.
he had given up on asserting his existence a long time ago. the exertion had been too unrewarding. after she died, he had nothing left. he had tried to visit her friends, but they were stubborn and disliked him. he had tried to visit her family, but her father vanished when she was young, her brother was in france, chasing after the popular rumour of fortune waiting to be found in the west, and her mother was a depressing lady who cried at any slight. his visits to her therefore boiled down to consolation and tissue-providing, so he avoided those too.
a pigeon landed at his feet. it waddled around on the concrete for a few moments, pecking at what it must’ve thought were seeds or crumbs of bread. its movements were starkly jolting compared to the stillness of the man and the statue. with a warble, it hopped up and flew away, the beat of its wings at first thundering, then loud, then distant and soft, yet still audible to the man who did not hear much else.
“pretty girlie,” they called me. “pretty pretty girlie,” they said, “with a pretty pretty face.”
then, before me, a mirror. i stared at my puffy eyes. watched them drift over my face. i saw stuff. left cheek: a dried creek of salty mascara. right cheek: purple ink thinly painted between bone and skin. it would get darker soon. upper lip: split, bleeding. i felt a slight throbbing there. my heart was still racing. lower lip: peeled flesh, bite marks. i got nervous often.
i raised my right hand. grabbed the left edge of the mirror. pulled. the medicine cabinet opened.
then, before me, bottles. i stared at the translucent oranges. i saw myself, all warped and curved. the surfaces were reflective. i looked away. down. the sink was spotless and the sometimes-flickering fluorescent light behind me revealed it so. but there was a bit of grime encircling the drain. i scratched it with a fingernail. right hand. it didn’t come off. i turned the water tap. right hand. it squeaked. on. shhhh, shhhhhh. “be quiet,” they said. “be quiet, you bitch,” they said. “be quiet,” said the running water.
i hadn’t realized that my left hand was clutching at the edge of the sink bowl. i loosened my grip a little.
i looked back up. i closed the cabinet door. at the tip of my nose: a tear. a droplet. it fell onto my swelling lip. salty. i opened the cabinet door again. xanax. clonazepam. lithium. ativan. the water was still running. i took one, the emptiest one. right hand. raising my left hand from the ceramic sink i realized how cold it was. there was a struggle to open the bottle. a lazy pour: left hand. one, two, three too many. i put one back in. two too many. the water was still running. i looked up and saw bottles. i had forgotten; the mirror was on the other side.
so i passed them between my lips. into my mouth. and swallowed. and cupped my hands, left and right. gathered water and drank.
i never close that cabinet anymore.
i am standing by the bookshelf, looking at the books. i see twenty-seven. there are twenty seven. i pass my gaze over the books again. but are you sure? i just counted. you might have missed one. did i miss one? that slim red spine, did i count that one? no, you missed it. you always miss it. then i’ll just add one. twenty-eight. twenty-eight is wrong. count again. i just counted. count again. i just counted. count again. you don’t even remember how many books there were. yes i do. how many books were there? twenty… twenty six? twenty five? no. count again. i already counted. then why don’t you remember how many there are? because there are too many numbers. you need to know. i don’t. count again. i already counted them. how many times did you count them? a lot of times. i don’t believe you. i counted them. did you really count them? you said i should count them again. so i must have counted them once. i did not. count them. you haven’t counted them yet. i counted them. did you count that slim red one? no. what about that leather-bound one? no. i’ll just add two. add two to what? to my count. what count? i don’t remember. count again. why? count again. why? you need to know. count again.
chères leuy et k.lu
j’écrirai ici encore
si seulement pour vous
may i suggest you reassess the positive effects of your investment in stupid?
it is the east 