Tuesday, August 31, 2010


‘I must go on I won’t go I can’t’ thought the man in the hat, a tuffaceous posy of hair sticking out from under his hat. Today being the 29th day of the month, a month that seemed to go on and on, a month that sat in his thoughts like a lowly beggar, shirt torn, hands outstretched revealing a capacious litter of sores, thumbscrews, fingers pressed together in prayer, summoning gods and heathens, the steeple of his head warding off lightening strikes and rogue pigeons, the next to last to last day of the month loitered like an unwanted lover, her advances making you wonder what you saw in her to begin with. ‘especially the dead’ he mumbled to himself, ‘or the dying.

It makes no difference to me; either way they’re not alive, living, yes, but not alive ’. The dead die and the living die; the trick is in knowing which is which. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the littlest dogman appeared from behind a fallen stand of fichus’, his chest puffed out like a fat man’s stomach, his eyes trained on the man in the hat. Pointing he garbled something faintly, softly, yet loud enough to raise the hair on the man in the hat’s neck. Not sure how to respond the man in the hat walked in the opposite direction, the littlest dogman playing his ribcage like a xylophone, the sun cutting the Seder Grocer’s awning to ribbons.

"The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently." (Friedrich Nietzsche) was written in an unsteady hand over the door to the Zum Zum Tavern, the proprietor offering a free drink to whomever could shoot the ‘Y’ out of ‘youth’. ‘fools’ thought the man in the hat. ‘should aim for the ‘R’… knock the stuffing out of the devil, by God’.

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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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