Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Queuing Up For the White Sale

He saw things that weren’t there, things that weren’t anywhere. He imagines things, things within things, things that at first look don’t seem like things, but on further inspection became things. He sees and imagines things, things that on further inspection aren’t things at all, no-things, things that appear to be things but really aren’t, no-things. What he saw and imagined, even the no-things, he sees everyday as if he were seeing and imagining it for the first time, as new things, things seen and imagined for the first time. He saw a camel with 27½ humps and a quail with a wren’s head. He saw a camel with a wren’s head and a wren with 27½ humps. He saw things that most people didn’t see; things that only he could see.

He heard things that weren’t audible, things that had no sound or tempo. He swore he heard lullabies and three-cord symphonies, choral arrangements and orchestral movements. He overheard others overhearing each other without either being aware that the other was overhearing what the other was overhearing, or what the other was overhearing for that matter. He heard music that sounded like soup, minestrone and gumbo, chowder and bouillabaisse. He listened to things that went bump in the night and things that went out with a whimper. The whimpering things went out during the day, as the night was reserved for things with a bump or a rattle. One thing he didn’t hear, however, was voices; not even his own.

(The night sky fell like a dead crow, wings arching, legs buckling head bent in two). There was a long queuing lineup in front of the Waymart (across from the viaduct next to the Seder’s grocery). They were having they’re annual white-sale, which happened twice a year, where they sold everything that was white for half to middling half off. The long queuing lineup wound winding round the back of the aqueduct (across from the Seder’s grocery) along the front of the sideways and across the crossways. People had been queuing up in the lineup since sunup, some just after night fell like a crow with a broken back. Others came late and had to queue up at the back of the queuing lineup, some grumbling and huffing under they’re breath, others whispering to others lined up queuing in the lineup. The Waymart had a massive flapping sign, made from a massive bed-sheet, on which was written in thick black Magic-Marker: MASSIVE WHITE SALE, BEDLINENS AND SHEETS AND PILLOWCASES AND OTHER WHITE STUFF FOR SALE AT HALF TO MIDDLING-HALF OFF. The man in the hat sped quickly past the long queuing lineup in front of the Waymart, his hat flapping madly in the wind.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz
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