Ah, the liquor, the liquor, the liquor: how it takes the edge off everything.
Category Archives: frags
abandoned pieces, fragments, scraps
the things we forget
the things we forget, the things we let go. it isn’t all little details. it’s gobs of information strewn away, squirreled and hidden.
it won’t come back to haunt us.
maybe.
then again, then again, in the middle of the night, on a bender, or in the throes, they barge through, trample all over us, grab us by the throat, shove us against a wall, lift us right off our feet.
we will not be forgotten. we will not be ignored. we are merely biding our time for moments like these.
for moments like these.
silence. break it. vii
you’d think with time it would be easier. you’d think with a boy and a girl and work and birthdays and weddings it would be easier with him. and sometimes it is. sometime i can just forget and look at him and love him and see the promise of everything he had said to me at the diner when we first had met serving him a plate of sausage and eggs, sausage split please and how he had made a point of it and i knew then and there i don’t know why, but i knew i could believe every word he said and he talked to much and seemed so embarrassed to be spilling over himself, spilling himself over me and i was entranced, i was stupidly in love with him right then and there but didn’t believe, couldn’t believe that this stranger out of nowhere in from the rain would want me, and then, and then, and then
An experience of language
When I had read blitz’s ‘five days in the electric chair’ it was the experience of language that blew me away. The attempt to transcribe that which was outside of the limits, to transcribe the liminal. Language itself is liminal, asymptomatic, never reaching, only-always suggesting, a gesture of pointing, but not the pointing or the thing itself. And yet, a thing in itself. Asymptomatic indeed.
Silence. Break it. VI
And I knew all these things but didn’t learn anything.
Silence. Break it. V
Silence. Break it.
He sits wide eyed hand just before his mouth 23, 34, 57, 81 prattling on all for the words if it weren’t for the words youthful thin close cropped stocky heavy a bushel of hair taut grey withered all through time the meaty lips if it weren’t for the words she would’ve left me she would’ve stayed fingers an inch from lips eyes into the blue haze of the tv screen on and on whisper into the dark and the words never fully took hold of me of her of us just this divisive nature of language and all the details scurried out of reach out of my tongue and I could’ve said anything would’ve said anything but for here but for here but for here, no-
Break it.
This guy
“…this guy’s all bubbles.”
She’s short on time
It just occured to me, why our first born has grown recently attached to me. I think on some level she knows, she knows our time is growing short. Kindergarden is coming, school all week, full days replacing lazy listless ones at home. We will no longer spending hours playing games, play fighting, watching cartoons, watching movies. I think she knows that this time that we now have is coming to an end. She knows something else awaits her and instead of diving forward or hanging back, she is making most of what we have left. Come september, this version of our daughter will be gone from us, replaced with someone bolder, smarter, more independent. And knowing this deep within her, certainly not on a conscious level, but aware nonetheless of the years we’ve spent in relative isolation, fall mornings, winter afternoons and spring days, she is telling me, that it has mattered to her, that for now, it will always matter.
Silence. Break it. IV
Silence.
Break it.
Camera shot, interior. Still shot. Pastic fruit in a wicker basket on a table. Too close, focus, slight jitter, cut-
The edge of a window pane, bottom left corner, only three angles, bulb of dried paint once white along right edge, and through the pane, out of focus, maybe a yellow slide, or shed, or flower. Slight jitter, cut-
The back of his head, at angle, as if we were ooking over his right shoulder, just the neck, the ear, the edge of his jaw. Just beyond, the outer edge of a mirror, the sound of water running from an unseen faucet. Hold, slight jitter, cut-
Full shot of her in a room sitting on a bed, curtains hiding the windows and the glare of a terrible sun. As if we were standing in the doorway, her arms wrapped around her bare knees in a loose tank top. Still the sound of water running, slight jitter. Cut-
Black. Water running.
Silence. Break it.
Silence. Break it. III
Silence.
Break it.
If you leave it here it will rot. She says, if you leave it here no one will care for it, certainly not me. Not me, she says. No, not me I will not care fit if you leave it here and it will go to waste, it will rot, it will become all wither and full of maggots and someone will have to clean it up but it won’t be me. No. If you leave it here be man enough to clean up your mess. No-
He says, no, I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough, thank you but I’m full. And instead they put more on his plate, they smile and insist and place their hands on his shoulders and lean their faces closer to his on each side and smile and coax and bring the plate closer underneath his chin and the table cloth is immaculate and his nails are pristine and their teeth are so very white and the glint of the fork catches the color of the room in such a way that he says, alright, alright, alright, just one more bite. No-
Silence. Break it.