There sitting at the funeral was the damn mother, with
a few hundred of their closest friendly-types, probably a few pro-
lifers, and the poor sons of the recently deceased. He used to tie
their shoes and wrestle them until they said mercy and then, later,
smoked the weed with them, allowing them to blossom into full fledged
attribution errors. The doctor was there, the one that filled her uterus
with eggs, all fertilized, waiting for one to take, latch on, become
parasite to host, get tendrilly and fibrous. The young lady's parents
were there, but she, herself, was not allowed to attend, not an event like this,
not a funeral, not for a child of god. Her hands were filthy with
wagon fuzz and grenadine and green apple liqueur and baby oil and
daddy's love and camera glare and finally metal shavings. The other
wenchish freak had already passed from this world and no one that was left behind could
say I told you so or put a lock on it or sock in it or trial around it
or bib it or ride it any more. The boys were distraught not knowing
whether the loving moments balanced the insufferable, displaced trust mired the
simple times; the power struggle of an aging control freak. He was the
smartest person he had ever met. Why could he have not seen this
coming? He was present. That always says a lot. As for the rest of the
lot, it's a lot of flesh to accumulate, making a lot out of a little,
making something completely unnatural and a lot of it. Then strangling
it. But, these are just words, not burning pieces of epidermis or muscles
trying desperately to hang on, all they have ever known, here, longing
to be fibrous and tendrilly, even though a nice soft sac may lie
somewhere beyond all this, a new suckling, another latching on, a hatch.
--
2/10/09
a few hundred of their closest friendly-types, probably a few pro-
lifers, and the poor sons of the recently deceased. He used to tie
their shoes and wrestle them until they said mercy and then, later,
smoked the weed with them, allowing them to blossom into full fledged
attribution errors. The doctor was there, the one that filled her uterus
with eggs, all fertilized, waiting for one to take, latch on, become
parasite to host, get tendrilly and fibrous. The young lady's parents
were there, but she, herself, was not allowed to attend, not an event like this,
not a funeral, not for a child of god. Her hands were filthy with
wagon fuzz and grenadine and green apple liqueur and baby oil and
daddy's love and camera glare and finally metal shavings. The other
wenchish freak had already passed from this world and no one that was left behind could
say I told you so or put a lock on it or sock in it or trial around it
or bib it or ride it any more. The boys were distraught not knowing
whether the loving moments balanced the insufferable, displaced trust mired the
simple times; the power struggle of an aging control freak. He was the
smartest person he had ever met. Why could he have not seen this
coming? He was present. That always says a lot. As for the rest of the
lot, it's a lot of flesh to accumulate, making a lot out of a little,
making something completely unnatural and a lot of it. Then strangling
it. But, these are just words, not burning pieces of epidermis or muscles
trying desperately to hang on, all they have ever known, here, longing
to be fibrous and tendrilly, even though a nice soft sac may lie
somewhere beyond all this, a new suckling, another latching on, a hatch.
--
2/10/09
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