Monday, April 20, 2009

Fiachra Thujone

…thinking he’d thought too much he stopped thinking on the edge of thinking gone awry. ‘....toeing edges, what a sight to behold, …’ he thought thinking this was by far the closest he’d ever come to the edge… The sky fell in the blink of an eye, fin de siècle, lickety-split. ‘…hurry, your ma has supper on the table young man…’ his da hollered from his chair. ‘…but I’m no hungry, da…’. ‘…no finagling, git…’…toeing the edge, such a fine place to be, fine indeed…. ‘…git, git…’ his da bawled toeing the edge of his temper. His da’s eye twitched when he got angry. ‘…if your not a good boy I’ll send you to the Pfalz’s orphanage…’ his da would say, his eye twitching, ‘….or the Walloon Cauvery…’ which according to his da was worse than the Pfalz orphanage; the charity having run dry years ago, lost to knavery and avarice.

That morning the sun was hotter than blazes, the cock crowing cawing caw, caw, caw… Fiachra Thujone ran bawling into the street, tripping kestrel first into the curbstone, arms sawmilling for dear life. ‘…never underestimate a fool…’ hollered a man with a blacksmith’s tooth, ‘…nor a nincompoop…’ added another, both men breaking a stitch. Fiachra Thujone’s great uncle owned the Badlands Shirt and Tie Co., known for its exacting hems and double-stitch pockets. The man in the hat, the alms man and the legless man, though friends with one another, and when the occasion arose friends with Dejesus and the harridan’s sister, had no recollection of ever having met Fiachra Thujone, or if they had had promptly forgot they had; either way, the man in the hat had no interest, not even fleetingly, in meeting Fiachra Thujone, not today, tomorrow, not ever.

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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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