Monday, July 13, 2009

Cats Laying Siege to Dogs

Thinking back over the last few days of his life, days spent either thinking about hats, the feel of tanned leather, like calf’s tongue yet supplier, and brushed felt, hatbands made from ostrich feathers and wren’s feet, or purchasing a hat, which he did without thought, as care for one’s head was of the utmost importance, he came to the realization that he had accomplished very little except dream about hats, a preoccupation that occupied much of his time----an avocation or obsession, some might suggest----either way he had to start putting more effort into other things, like thinking about where the missing whore’s glove might be, which given the manner of its vanishing and value, at least to those with more shortcomings than virtues, would take a great deal of thinking, or figuring out ways to malign the Witness, who’s shenanigans were becoming an ongoing concern, not only for he, but for Dejesus and the harridan’s sister too, or simply trying to dissuade himself from fixating on hats, which would free up more time than he had things to think about. Having decided on making a change in his habits the next day, following his morning walk, he donned his best fedora, the one with the satin hatband and rosebush stickpin, and left for the day, forgoing any further thought on the subject, which given his slow-wit and demure affectation would not be a difficult at all, as long as he stayed the line and toed forward, which he did, unremittingly.

He’d seen this before: cats laying siege to dogs, crows tightrope walking the wire awaiting the next opportunity to lay siege to an unsuspecting swineherd. In no way, at least none that he could think of, did this matter, as in the end everything would find its rightful place, siege or besieged, it mattered very little which, among the rabble and stink of this most imperfect world. ‘--tomorrow I will buy a new hat’, he said to himself, ‘--one softer than a calf’s tongue with an imposing brim’. Off in the far to middling distance, crouched behind a thicket of Fichus trees, stood two dogmen; the littlest and the middling to littlest. In the littlest dogman’s hand the man in the hat could barely make out, as the sky was dimming, the clouds having come home to roost, a grayish green object spackled with brine and mud. Thinking that he’d seen this slithery green bespackled object before, perched on the balustrade that circumnavigates the aqueduct or in the alleyway behind the Waymart, he put his hand to his brow as if he were giving a salute, and peered straining at the object, his forehead rumpled like a schoolboy’s badly done homework.

1 comment:

Joanne said...

who but you could make forehead wrinkles so delightful! love that closing line.

About Me

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

Blog Archive