Saturday, June 18, 2011

Mccleman

The rector stood askew the pulpit counting the Sunday take: 27½ ducats, thirty-seven coppers, a commode washer and a timber dime. Cockerel’s go for one and seven-pence a half-dozen, Sartell’s are cheaper but don’t soap nearly near. Pulling at her stay-pins trying to reset her corset, the crinkly side, nonetheless. More whalebone than linen. His da said ladies like her play the heroine, pretend they’re in distress over a loose thread. Mulligatawny goes good with buttery rich rolls, pinched from the rollmaker’s freehand when he’s on the terlet. Commoding; comes by it naturally, makes mincemeat out of shingle-toast. Once saw him peamealing a kidney, damn well near eviscerated. Iron-rich-blood flypapering the sideboard spots. Say a man’s measure is his kindler, bottom side ‘ell come faceup if you slack it hard enough. Sets a hearth place aglow with one strike. Kips the homefires burning long into the night. Warm a hand or a cold heart on the kettle leash, bridled with joy and happy smiles. Say the wife’s the one to make the most of it, lays a flatiron on the cod under the embers. Good for making a hem stiff and lay flat. Otherwise the stitching unravels. Makes a thigh look ruined. Mccleman, heckler, sat on his yob making flyby night comments nearby of others, saying he had a right to as he’s spitshined, and has his ma’s pension to prove it. Mark my words backcombing keeps it from unravelling. Bodes well with the lady. Buoyancy makes the man. Annuity goes only so far. Keeps a heckler afloat. On the lam. Otherwise.

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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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