Greetings
Krs-ss-sn…hrk-srs-hup…shs, Sssns.
Each scratch, swoop and slight twitch of the hand revives me to unfathomable and inspirational heights. What opportunity is granted unto thee! And still, this miraculous encounter continues: An Irish maiden in a swan feathered gown. Rows of curling chocolate snake down her full figure, dripping and melting in the frizzy moonlight. The gauze of her gown thins once plumes of silver tickle her. More and more glue their own feathers upon her, franticly desperate to disappear within one another’s. Flinching, spinning, swatting, the birds wrap her in split wings, until she crystalizes into an icicle of charcoal-swirled ice, slipping through the steaming bars, out. Rushing…racing…the billowing birds of smudgy chalk haphazardly cut their way through the fog that tries to swallow her whole. Dirty toes wriggling on the crumbs of the cliff, she collapses into an oil spill…into a lustrous liquid of luxury, spilling down, down, down, until dripping in greasy drops onto convergence of twin tree.
Dark. Permanent. Sustaining.
“Um, e-excuse me?”. The stream of life fades into a stain.
I scratch at my nails with my teeth.
“Eexxxuuuuuuuse me?”. These words now scrape against my teeth, the moth behind twitches its wings. Dust appears as it coughs out the question mark. The wrinkles, like the branches of a dead tree that pale-green lichen wrap their flowery bodies around. And the eyes…unlike any that have locked onto mine own. As if a child painted them and mixed colors into a swirling illusion. Only later, in horror, they realized the stripe-streaked atrocity they committed.
His skin scrunches up by his dimples like a rag being rung out wide.
Tink tink tink. “He hee hee!” bubbles out mucus from his nose like a witch’s brew overflowing.
“Excuse ME!” His throat strings vibrate like muffled static, just the kind from the War of the World’s broadcast. I know it is impossible, it’s- I understand it’s just a story. And yet…I really do think it happened. In an abandoned place, where the people walk numb and shut the blinds. Where the night is silent and the day just as well, or maybe a place where bad things always arise. Yet no one knows what to do…yes, maybe not too far from here…maybe it has happened again, right now, as we speak. Right now! In your own backyard, in your own boss’s office, in your own sister’s closet…it’s happening again! And those creatures are still roaming around there, but you just don’t pay attention! They wait for you to see them, so why do you not act! No, it is not just a mere shadow, pressing itself against your foggy window late at night. No, it is not just the slamming of the ice box. Nor is it the draft that brushes past your nooks and crannies when you slink down to the cellar. Yes! That’s when it happens…and it will happen again, just as it did, on that day of the orange-sky season.
Our drafty shack reeked of mice excrement and fermented tea. But I preferred that to the searing sand that slipped through the shorn, splintered wounds in the wall. Sand. The dry bones of some animal that brought us to our deconstructed pyramid lay outside, dozing off with dreamy-wide eyes under a blanket of recycled dust. Dust that became gray and loose and limp from its roll around the west. Sand…sand. The sweat from a thousand immigrants once nourished this sand. Their hard work pouring out from under their arms and between their legs. A waterfall of opportunity it once was. And the plants slurped this salty liquid down to their roots. But the dirt has since been licked clean. Sand, sand, sand! No! The sun did not do this! The sun did not sin. But the sand clogged it up, drained it all out, sucked it all dry. That’s its own problem, that’s its own fault. Yet I am punished for its sins! I swipe off a mound of this from the tip of my head, my hair falling out and twirls with ashy wisps spinning on down. Yup that greedy glutton gulped down all that was left, leaving none for no one else. But, oh! To be bathed in a fountain made of cut jade, studded with pearls. To be cleaned in a crystal stream, or even dunked in a rotting trough, either is fine with me. Anything, though, anything. I would’ve done anything to be wiped fresh again. Anyways. No matter how hard I spat, the ground won’t never be ready for buckwheat…those soba noodles will have to wait. I yanked off my rope, the frayed material soft like hair. My fingernails twitched at the sight of the dour grime. The whole thing looks like it was dropped in a bucket of paint. My mouth turns sour and my nostrils get bigger. Bleck! Maybe I could’ve made it better, I thought as I scratched off a slit of the grime, revealing a tan hide. Ahh, much better. I knew it was clean. Letting it slip through my ticklish palms, the belt ends in gnarled amputation. Oh, how I longed to feel the cool iron extinguish my flaming feet! The sweet kiss of shivery chills, the lump bumps that make your arm hairs grow. Just the kind I saw Haha and Father doing, when she was wrapped in linen and he in his mourning suit. Their lips smooshed together hard like a clap, hands behind backs like butterflies fanning their wings in shock. Oh, to have felt that cold iron buckle would’ve been bliss. But it’s there, lying, encased in jelly blood. Slathered with cattle dung and peppered with fly carcasses…
