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Sunday, November 19, 2006


Hungry and the Seven Skirts

My feet, my scuffed and pealing leather shoes, will clatter on the cobblestone of a slumbering town! A dress of seven skirts, a dirty cape with a head-enveloping hood will billow behind me! The sloppy tied laces will be slipping! I won’t need you! And I’ll keep running until the road turns to dirt and I’ll still be running when all wagon tracks and horse shoe prints have disappeared and the road too. I will be in a place that never knew peddlers with smirks like yours, those cunning men that peddle shampoos. I won’t need shampoo! A place that is wild, witchy, and cold, silver-washed by the celestial beast that you never once compared me to! My hair will grow a foot; the frosted weeds will crunch under me like brittle bird bones shot from the mouth of the owl in the forest where I’ll go! I’ll go, the trees even blacker than their background, more twisted than my wrist the day you made me try your experimentally flavored eclairs. They were less pretty than glistening plumbs. But you never appreciated light on fruit of any kind, I know. I remember when I put chocolate-covered strawberries in your new suit just as a surpise, to be funny. You got mad. You said that you didn’t want juice in your pockets. But I will be in the woods and you won’t be able to find me if you try! The nearby trees will melt and so will I at the sight of electrically lit flowers! My shoes, lost! I’m dancing, trotting! I am a fox! Your eyes are fireworks! No they aren’t! Stamp, twirl, and dip myself, and beat the hollow drum of a belly that is hungry! Oh! I collapse. I roll through the grass as it thaws leaving thousands of droplets for me to drink. Full orange flowers tipping nectar over the curling edge. The pockets of my seven skirts full of juice for me to drink! And when the electric eels trickle by I won’t be scared; I’ll even be a welcoming committee for the meteorites, God’s very own dandruff! As well as a cheerleader. As well as a strike leader. As well as a plumb as well as sparkling as good as gone from you. As well as a lover of anyone but you.

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"... I’ll even be a welcoming committee for the meteorites, God’s very own dandruff!"

darling sister, i love this more and more every time i read it. i think i just now got the juice pockets parallel (perhaps i had just forgotten it) but yes, it is so wonderful. you are such a brilliant writer and i am so glad that you are sharing your words with everyone. thanks for the lovely piece.
p.s. shall it be considered poetry or prose?
ah! sights and sounds and smells and tastes! twirling and running and feeling. that's what i experience in your words.
This is great. As usual. We need to pile on the words cause I fear we're being drowned out.

"My hair will grow a foot" = absurdity.
Full orange flowers tipping nectar over the curling edge... you dazzle me!
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