Monday, April 13, 2009

Tyrine to Troué

‘…dérusheurs tyrine to troué his awl…’ said his father, ‘…tyrine to troué…’. Novosibirsk of Novosibirsk lived behind the Waymart in a stove box, the pokes in the sidewalk corrugating his spine. Uncle Jim ate in the woolshed, next to the scythe and the weed hoe. ‘…tyrine to troué…’ bellowed his da, ‘…dérusheurs tyrine…’. ‘…life is full of mystery…’ he said his da said. ‘…so you best get out while you can…’. Fridays were for double-knit sweaters and corduroy-pants; Thursdays came née, or. ‘…wait up da, I have a stone in my shoe…’. ‘…hop…’ he said his da said, ‘…its Eastertide…’. On account of it was cold outside he wore his great-da’s double-knit and corduroy-pants, his great-ma’s doily hat and uncle Jim’s hobnails. ‘…hop jig, jig hop…’ said his da he said. Alongside the curb stood the Aubonne sisters (seamstresses for the Vincennes Glove and Scarf Company), Geneve, the youngest, sitting astride the curbstone, Genevieve, the eldest, sitting up against the lamppost counting bluebottles and shadflies. ‘…a boy is smaller than a man but bigger than a suckling…’ his da said he did. ‘…never forget that, else the sky buckle and fall crashing into your head…’. Geneve (the youngest), sat upright, stemming the flies wicking in her bonnet, ‘…away with you, shoo…!’ she screech, ‘…away, away…!’ Dr. Sickly, a man of rare talents, stood straddling the lamppost, the Herstal Liege pantomime troop packing up their cog, Tiscali the juggler (from Sint-Katelijne-Waver) juggling three red balls and a yellow cup. ‘…we’ll never get away from here…’ lamented his da he did, ‘…not with these so-and-so’s breaking a spleen…’. …such a sweet lilt to his voice, one last tear before his confirmation, pathetic sot-and-so.

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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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