Thursday, February 28, 2013

Of Hell and Silver Plates

The cat woke me up. His plodding thorny digits uncoiling from my crown stirred me from the foggy realization of solitude amongst the tangle of sheets. Mistaking a two for a five in half sleep I rose on bloated ankles that cracked under my own weight against the chilled pergo floors like bread dough that had been left in the sun. I pissed and drank water, considered starting some coffee. Still sour from a conversation about a phone bill that left me feeling like I didn't know her. Or, maybe I knew her too well but could avoid it incrementally less. The pond was shrinking and the water was getting thicker. Maybe I was just being too sensitive but the dismissal was so precise over trivia. Perhaps I just wanted to be angry, postmortem over the Harry Crews novel I had finished in self imposed attic loft exile. The fictional shell shocked protagonist positing that one did not have to go to war, that in the nations of hearts there was war enough for every one. I realised it was two and not five and came back to the empty bed save for the black pill of a cat against the fitted white mattress, curled in on itself where heads and pillows usually conspired. Arbitrating a new contract with sleep I picked up and read the first page of her Bell Jar. I was struck by the image of a cadaver that could not be unseen. The image was described as being carried around like a noseless black balloon on a string. I read a few more pages sizing the gilded shoes of what she had been reading only hours before, but the plot of slumber had been hatched. The specters of typed thoughts blurring, occurring now like pulp rivulets, silhouetted oak limbs to the west, lightening through dendritic nets. Must abdicate.

3 comments:

beth said...

sorry, love

beth said...

sorry, love

beth said...

http://knitaranchhouse.blogspot.com/2013/02/if-i-wrote-novel-this-would-be-pag

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St. Augustine, Florida, United States
I spill ink ,it collects here.