It was that loud kind of rainy, middle of July. Just the thing our parched midwestern city stayed up the extra hour for. She moaned under the touch reacquainted, like a monogomous wife her buisness-gone now returned mate. Windows were smudged with noses far past the noses' bedtimes. BANG! Sychronous beating hearts. A second smudge. Silence creshendoed to metzo forte droning, "pitter-patter, pitTER-PATTER," as equilibrium returned from the first smudges' leaving. The second grew in expectancy of the impending flashbang, nature's orchestral leitmotif: thunder. All across the city this was happening.
But I, I was displaced. Where everyone, myself included, had been near combustion under god's great magnifying glass and ought welcome the wet as the city did: howling, everyone had not gained and lost all since Tuesday. So, be damned, the children, the city, and the rain.
| lay down | lay down your weary tune | lay down the song you strum and rest yourself | 'neath the strength of strings no voice can hope to hum | and let the morning breeze like a bugle blow against the drums of dawn | and be struck by the sounds before the sun knowing that the night is gone | and stand unwound beneath the skies and clouds unbound by laws | unbound by laws | and rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings no voice can hope to hum |
Showing posts with label Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stories. Show all posts
February 14, 2008
Polite
Francis gets a coloring book once a year from her grandmother when Mother and two of her cousins ride the train across Wyoming to Iowa's middle.
Julie is older than Katy. Both are younger than Francis though old enough to be said that they are hardly polite girls. Being polite is very important as Grandma always reminds the three on their outings. On the trip, Francis tries to play games her cousins might like to play and tries to share her coins and ponies, but Julie tells Katy that Francis is autistic and that that is the polite way to say a retarded person.
Francis is 37.
She wears a buzz cut in the summer months because that's how Howard, her dog, wears his. Grandma covers it with bonnets or handkercheifs, this will cover that, Franny, she cooes in an exemplary polite voice. Grandma is stuck a bit in her ways: that proper girls have pretty and long hair. But Grandma also has a buzz that she happens to cover with a pretty and long wig. Francis has seen the buzz and announces it with enthusiasm at the store and market and pretty much anywhere the two are together just how pretty grandma's hair is and how it's just like hers underneath. Grandma always blushes and laughs, oooh, Franny you silly doll. Oh, Franny. Then, they buy a coloring book.
Julie is older than Katy. Both are younger than Francis though old enough to be said that they are hardly polite girls. Being polite is very important as Grandma always reminds the three on their outings. On the trip, Francis tries to play games her cousins might like to play and tries to share her coins and ponies, but Julie tells Katy that Francis is autistic and that that is the polite way to say a retarded person.
Francis is 37.
She wears a buzz cut in the summer months because that's how Howard, her dog, wears his. Grandma covers it with bonnets or handkercheifs, this will cover that, Franny, she cooes in an exemplary polite voice. Grandma is stuck a bit in her ways: that proper girls have pretty and long hair. But Grandma also has a buzz that she happens to cover with a pretty and long wig. Francis has seen the buzz and announces it with enthusiasm at the store and market and pretty much anywhere the two are together just how pretty grandma's hair is and how it's just like hers underneath. Grandma always blushes and laughs, oooh, Franny you silly doll. Oh, Franny. Then, they buy a coloring book.
Weather And A Swear.
Fall lingered well into November before it fell abruptly into seven inches of insulation that just now, January fourth, melted away to still-green yards with a week of mist and rain. An ambiance that of Seattle right here in Iowa’s middle. Clouds sat heavy as old man winter plopped that lazy keister of his right down onto this Midwestern city of ours and sweated that dismal, thick, and damp behind through our new year festivities, switching cheeks to show the moon or sun but only for a moment. Some call it global warming, I just think he’s getting lazy. He and Mother Earth haven’t done it in years.
this is why I didn't make it over last night guys
So I pulled a Riley with a twist of Graeme last night. I got out of the bath about 9:30pm intent on homeworking it when "AGHAST!" I am dripping with no towels. These bath mats sure are plush, thinks I, bet they'd hold alot of water. And then I roll over naked and dry at 7:30am late for class, hit my head on the toilet, and scribble that homework done.
Such is 22.
Here's a little irony thrown in. Yesterday I didn't pass a skill which means i had to do it again today to pass. The skill was making a bed. So, the teacher says, I bet you made the hell out of your bed this morning. Huh, I responded.
Oh bother.
Such is 22.
Here's a little irony thrown in. Yesterday I didn't pass a skill which means i had to do it again today to pass. The skill was making a bed. So, the teacher says, I bet you made the hell out of your bed this morning. Huh, I responded.
Oh bother.
"Roar," Said The Scary Thing
The monster smoked dynamite. He lit the wicks with whole trees. Once, a country begged him to leave. As he left, he puffed acid clouds in perfect rings around the top of their mountain. Fire hissed from chapped lips as he hawked spittoon lakes numerous as his cavities, numerous as the discords he whistled through so many holes in the mean teeth that there were as much teeth as holes. Every breath was like a bad organ player. When he left, he stomped off avalanches, and it must have been forever before he disappeared.
Little was known of him. Nobody followed him off. It got around that someone, though, told someone their vagabond cousin got close enough to know the glistening, black flanks were slick and dripping as a tongue in an easy girl's mouth. Whatever that meant. "It was ugly, and he was scared," they said he said, "but he bore it. But he wouldn't again if he had the chance." And then, they said, the vagrant closed his eyes and shook. And died.
Little was known of him. Nobody followed him off. It got around that someone, though, told someone their vagabond cousin got close enough to know the glistening, black flanks were slick and dripping as a tongue in an easy girl's mouth. Whatever that meant. "It was ugly, and he was scared," they said he said, "but he bore it. But he wouldn't again if he had the chance." And then, they said, the vagrant closed his eyes and shook. And died.
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