Birds and orange juice glasses fly. Cell phones sink. You can drink
bourbon from a woman's shoe. I have confirmed. Other confirmations:
Frangible plates of ice skewed up and broken on the window glass,
crystal columns, feathery fingers, or: it is cold. Me is my brain, its
axons and dendrites, kitchen forkings and chalky bulbs of jalapeno
pills, golden soups and gray soups, occasional Jacuzzis of serotonin.
My thoughts and anti-thoughts and words. Everything else is a passenger
ship, the U.S.S. Lovelace. Every day I want you to hunt me out and
bellow, "Do you realize you are a passenger ship, and this bitch is
If you can't locate me, find my silhouette. It will listen. If it
flickers the gaze of a stupid opossum or simply says, uh, no, slap my
silhouette right in its smart, watery-eyed, japed and lathered,
opossumy face. Eternal cycle of organized warfare, confirmed.
Crow picking orange bits from vomit dried on side of church van,
confirmed. Shuffling work-walk (down university hallways) of crazy men,
confirmed. Tendency to tell stories, confirmed. Lust, confirmed. Deer
as generally enviable and invisible, confirmed. Ever tell you I was
born on a houseboat? I didn't? Well, lause, now I just did. I knowd ye
would care. We didn't have timeouts; when I was in
trouble—and I was often in trouble—my mother would
lift me into her sweet arms, walk onto the back porch, pause to see
that Memphis sun skittering out fat and low and loud, and drop me fully
clothed into the Mississippi River. I sank first, no doubt quivering a
little. Then I swam, boys and gals. Helloooo… I mean to say I
can still swim. Although my venison freezer is admittedly shy and
November smokes and chatters hoarsely to Indiana and I can (and will)
find a woman's shoe. Yes, I did lose one (or I mean to say threw upon
the roof). But like phone calls, salt shakers, or livers (or is it
spleens?), they come in two.
- - -
Read SL's story, "Sit."
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