Friday, May 22, 2009

The Morning the Day Before

In Belize City Belize, as in Sdertlje Stockholms Lan and Navurevure Central people run about half-clothed yanking on the tips of their ears. Of course, and within reason, slow-wittedness and unhurried thoughts run backwards, people seldom meaning what they say or saying what they mean, the world whizzing by like an aft-thrown rock. In the beginning the beginning begun again and again until everything beginning began again, a second, third thousandth time ad nausea. He fret like a well-strummed guitar, the pads of his fingers picked raw, his chin elbowed into his shoulder, the strings of his heart worn thin and frayed. ‘…for the love of Job all I’m asking is for a leg up, please…’. ‘…basso-bocce…’ said the legless man, ‘…for the love of Job get on with it…’.

The Staffordshire sisters of Lichfield are in ca·hoots with the Daugavpils Sisters of Daugavpils’, neither sisters having a particular fondness for jack the ball or pinochle. On Thursdays and Tuesdays both the Staffordshire’s and the Daugavpils’ sisters play ring-around-the-maypole, the littlest Staffordshire sister calling out the count. When she tires the biggest Daugavpils sisters takes over, counting backwards from one-thousand to one-hundred-and-one thousand, stopping only to clear her throat and hock up a razor of spit, her stomach having turned sour grapes from calling out the count backwards. ‘…fuck the maypole…’ says the littlest dogman sitting hunkered in the hedgerow, ‘…for the love of Job please…’.

That morning, or the day before, the man in the hat left his lean-to in search of Dejesus who he was to meet behind the Waymart at 27½ passed the hour to discuss gloving and mischief making, whoring and double-crossing. Skipping, jollily, he made his way down the upside, his hat firmly tamped on the crown of his head, his brown calfskin satchel swinging at his side, the sky bluer than blueberries in July. Stopping, suddenly, his satchel swaging, his trousers milky with road dust and salt, his eye catches sight of a most magnificent ham tied in cheesecloth and hanging from a butcher’s hook. ‘…ah a most delectable ham indeed, and fit for a king …’. Drooling, his eyes focusing on the delectable cottage ham, his satchel now at rest against his trouser leg, he says ‘…for the love of Job, but for a morsel of knuckle…’.

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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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