disassembly
Buried in the snowdrift
soft waves of panic
sun and sand and seagull
ocean views
salted lips
Buried in the snowdrift
grit
and
shells
and
unread books
Buried in the snowdrift
my
childhood
memories
are
excuses
for
poor
taste
Buried in the snowdrift where all I can smell is snow.
The house collapsed, throwing up flames like Hell was sick. I looked around for Isaac. “Goddamnit, was he inside?” I said. Old Abraham cackled and ran to his fixed-gear bicycle. He rode away, middle finger held high. Isaac crawled out of the fire, yelled, “Next time, bring a fucking goat.”
The year 2033 is not a good time to be. It’s not a good space to be. Primitive 20th-century scientists talked about them as one word. They didn’t know that spacetime would be co-opted by Hollywood and Air Jordan’s heirs. Space Jam needed a sequel, so they looked to science.
Sometimes I see something so moving I know I’m not supposed to linger. See it and leave. If you stay too long, you wear out the wordless shock. Love it and trust it and leave.
To All Investment Bankers, Hedge Fund Managers, and Generally Wealthy People of the World,
This is a call to arms. I’m not going to sugarcoat it - you guys and gals have got a seriously tarnished image over the past few years (decades). And, with the exception of a couple of you (who happen to…
I can dig it.
“Jenny, I made you a cake,” Drake said. The cake was upturned on the kitchen floor. Jenny had slapped it off the counter a week before during their twice-annual birthday argument. Ants circled it like a drain. “And now,” Drake said shrilly, pointing, “we have ants.” Jenny shrugged. She waited.
“What?”
“Dreamt it yesterday.” I tug at my wrist tied tightly to the bedpost.
“Your arm broke?” Mary ties the other.
“A little tighter. No, I saw the words. They seemed incredibly important, like a solution.”
Mary sits back, naked, beautiful. “I’ll be careful,” she says. “But not too careful.”
“You’re goddamned right it’s a competition,” Fred said.
I put a hand to my ear, looked puzzled.
“I said, ‘You’re goddamned right it’s a competition!’”
We stood at the top of a very tall building. Fred laughed and jumped to victory. I’ve lost to many people, but losing is living.
Wise men
cash out
and leave.
My daughter’s Jessie, but she favors herself Jesus. Further, she favors herself not-mine. “I’m Jesus, not anyone’s,” she says. I’ve explained how that’s a fundamental misunderstanding of Christ, but she just swishes her black habit, says, “Shush.” Who am I to judge? She could be Jesus. Could I be God?
Rereading A Storm of Swords has been a bad idea because now I only want to read fantasy and science fiction. It’s like I’m sixteen again. I’d forgotten how much I like this stuff when it’s done well, long-winded and overwritten expository sections notwithstanding.
Or does the real truth about this kind of thing always sound shallow, you know, everybody’s real reasons?
“Hannah, that’s blood!”
Hannah looked at Tim over her dinosaur sippy cup. “Really?”
Tim grimaced. “Yeah. I changed it when you weren’t looking.”
Hannah spat into her palm and inspected the bloody spit.
Tim laughed. “Kidding, it’s Hi-C.”
Tim was wrong, and would soon be dead. Hannah was a vampire.
“Shit. I’m missing twenty-five cents.” Nixon turns to the man waiting behind him, to the old woman sitting behind the driver. Neither meets his gaze. He stands just inside the bus, palm cupping a deficiency. Los Angeles, the middle of July. There is no credibility in walking. He sighs, exits.
