Watersnake, Firesnake
he egg inside, and placed it back in his dresser drawer.
Chan closed the drawer, and walked across the hall to his parents’ bedroom. They lay on the bed with their arms behind their backs and their feet bound together. Dirty rags had been stuffed in their mouths. And instead of looking happy to see Chan, theirging one day between the fence and the west side of the house for grubs to feed to his pet chameleon, Rainbow. It was a warm July day not long after his tenth birthday. He often went there because it was cool and damp from the shade of the trees, and the worms seemed to like it there. He never took more than he needed, then he thanked the grubs for sacrificing their lives so that Rainbow could remain living and being his pet. Chan was very kind-hearted when it came to grubs.
As Chan was digging with his stick, he hit something hard and it made a loud clang. He brought the stick down again and heard the same metal noise. Chan thought it might be treasure, since his aunt had found a jewelry box filled with pearls in her garden last year. He scrabbled and dug for ten more minutes before uncovering the egg. It was heavier than it looked.
The egg was the size of a goose egg, but black with flecks of silver and red running across its surface. When he held it, a warmth spread throughout his body, and he had the momentary impression of flying. It seemed to be unbreakable as well, since it remained whole after Chan tripped over his own shoes and dropped it on the ground.
He snuck back to his room and set the egg on a small pillow, then surrounded it wit
The Roman and the Runaway
ngs seemed to have changed so much since those days. “No, I mean, yes, I’ll come. Please.” Luke managed to twist his mouth into a smile.
“Great. I’ll fix us some sandwiches and you can go and check with your mum that it’s OK.”
Luke dashed back home and was relieved to find his mother alone in the kitchen. He told her of the plan.
“Really?” she laughed. “Well, nobody knows the walks round here better than Ned. He used to go on hikes with me and my brother when we were all teenagers. We used to tease him because he was always trying to get us interested in the plants and birds, when all we wanted to do was get away from our parents. He was the same: his dad was a complete nightmare and Ned wouldn’t spend any time in the house if he could help it.” She stopped and looked shrewdly at Luke. “I hope you’ll be more polite to him than we were.”
“‘Course I will, Mum,” said Luke and he went back to Mr Kelly’s house before she could reconsider.
Mr Kelly was loading up a rucksack with f
Cerbo en Vitra ujo
Enough to buy Kaj’s life.
Doc dropped onto the sofa and stared up at her. “Undress for me.”
“I–” Grete put her hand to her chest as if that could hold her panic inside.
“Don’t be shy now, kitten. You didn’t want this, you wouldn’t have waited for me.” His hand slid down beneath the waist of his pants and his eyes closed in pleasure. “The hands ain’t all I got that’s new.”
Breath dragged out of Grete in a moan. Doc smiled, his eyes still closed. “Wait for it, kitten.”
She had to find out if Kaj were alive. Grete opened the top of her tunic. “I might need some help undressing.”
“That so.” The leather creaked as he stood. “I think these hands knew you before they were mine.” Kaj’s long fingers twined in her hair. Doc’s arm wrapped around her waist and pulled Grete against him, hard. “That’s a rare opportunity, kitten. Rare indeed.”
Grete lifted one of Kaj’s hands and kissed the fingertips. She closed her eyes and willed herself back to the garden on Banwith Stat
Single: Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer
alling across her face, I looked at the fine lines of her long legs and hips, her appendix scar, her delicate neck, her thick upper arms and her thin wrists. I realized the little boys who wanted to marry her because of her smocks covered with balloons and clowns had the right idea, even if they didn’t have all the information.
“Fuck you. Fuck you. You fucking fink. You fucker,” she screamed.
When I went to get my things, school had already started. Miss Tennessee left a message and told me to come when she wasn’t there, she would put my things in a box. I went one day after school. I was dressed in an Oxford and slacks, a disappointment after the shorts and t-shirts of summer, especially since it had yet to cool off.
I let myself in. Miss Tennessee had done as she’d promised. There was a cardboard box inside the door. I closed the door behind me and knelt down and opened the cardboard flaps. There were some paperback books, a few cds, two T-shirts, a pair of socks, a cheese grater, and a
The Long Ride Out
ive dollars an acre on the open market. There’s a land office across the street, of course. They might be able to turn something up for you…?”
Marlin shook his head. “Sounds a bit out of my price range. Thank you just the same.”
The banker stood up before Marlin got to the door. “There are, you know, other options…”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, you don’t have to have cash, you see. The principals of the bank are quite willing to lend money with land as collateral.”
“Really? Is that a common practice?”
“Of course. Just the other day…well, I couldn’t go into any details, you understand. But yes, it’s not uncommon at all.”
“How much per acre are we talking about?”
The banker shrugged modestly. “Perhaps as high as…five dollars an acre? Maybe higher?”
“Even for land that didn’t cost that much in the first place? You could still borrow as high as five an acre against it?”
“I don’t quite see what you’re driving at, but yes. The railroad has b
Canada and Other Poems
lead and iron, near and far,
Are strewn beneath the rocks and mould.
Ye prize those shining gems, because
Their sparkling beauty cheers the eye,
And, by the force of nature’s laws,
They never in profusion lie.
Could we, Aladdin like, descend
Into a place where diamonds grow,
Our minds would then most surely tend
To value diamonds very low.
The emerald’s or diamond’s shine,
Is valued not for that alone,
But for its absence in the mine,
Where thousands lie, of common stone.
And thus, within the world of thought,
The pebble and the lead abound,
But real pearls are seldom brought,
And gold or silver rarely found.
We all have thoughts, we speak them, too,
The world is fill’d with words of men,
But still is priz’d the precious hue,
Of golden thoughts from tongue or pen;
And he who digs and brings to light
A lovely thought, a pearly gem,
‘Twill surely shine with lustre bright,
For men, to cheer and better them.
The House Beyond Your Sky
yperstates collapse and bloom, and pieces of pilgrim, parakeet, and Grasper are annihilated–primaries and backups, gone.
Shards of brute matter fall away from the house, like shreds of paper, like glittering snow, and dissolve among the wild maze of the ontotropes, inimical to life.
Endpoints in time are established for a million souls. Their knotted timelines, from birth to death, hang now in n-space: complete, forgiven.
* * *
Blood wells in Sophie’s throat, thick and salty. Filling her mouth. Darkness.
“Cupcake.” Her father’s voice is rough and clotted. “Don’t you do that! Don’t you ever come between me and your mom. Are you listening? Open your eyes. Open your eyes now, you little fuck!”
She opens her eyes. His face is red and mottled. This is when you don’t push Daddy. You don’t make a joke. You don’t talk back. Her head is ringing like a bell. Her mouth is full of blood.
“Cupcake,” he says, his brow tense with worry. He’s kneeling by her. Then his head je
This Little Pig
and he heard footsteps and laughter.
“Hey, Aage,” Lasse held a towel and a coverall. “Let’s hose you off again.”
Aage frowned. “Where’s Concetta?”
“She’s round the other side of the van.” He smirked. “Want me to call her?”
Aage’s eyes widened and he waved his hands. “No! No, no, no. I just didn’t see her.” He looked at the towels and coveralls again. “Where’d you get those?”
“Concetta brought them.”
Every time Aage stepped, his wet underwear shifted and clung to his body. The briefs slowly tried to climb up the crack between his buttocks, aiming to be the world’s worst wedgie. With the van behind them, there was no way Aage was going to reach back to free his briefs.
Concetta was behind him. The only girl he knew that had seen an MG-TD. Heck, the only girl he knew who could drive. She had driven one. This goddess of the road was behind him, watching his scrawny legs pick their way down the driveway. Aage wrapped his arms around himself and shivered again.
Write Stories To Me, Grandpa!
her and her brother, would be a more appropriate companion, still no invitation was forthcoming.
‘When my father invited my husband fishing the following week, my father grumbled at the suggestion that they take my daughter along.
‘My son is now two and a half months old, and my father is looking forward to participating with him in Little League, soccer, etc. Again, both my husband and I chimed in that the same activities are also available for girls. Silence.
‘What really disturbs me is that after these rebuffs my daughter sometimes quietly says to me, ‘Mama, I am proud we both are girls.’ I don’t know where she gets this from, but she’ll often repeat it several times and in more of a forlorn tone than an enthusiastic one.’
A GRANDPA TOO FAR
You telephone your son or daughter who lives in a distant city. He or she now has her own children. You chat with your son or daughter in the usual fashion. Closing, you ask to talk to your grandchild. The youngster comes on line. ‘Hi,
Wouldn’t It Be Nice
oes look like time has become a consideration in these lyrics, that this is not from the perspective of someone who is too young either to disappoint or have been disappointed. He’s a person who’s old enough to have done both.”
*
Everything about the album has this sort of reflexivity and layered meaning, some of it intentional, some of it evolved. It started with a single song, “Orange Crate Art.” And although he is likely to “sweat bullets” over his lyrics, it’s the melody that comes first for Parks.
“I don’t make up melodies. Melodies occur to me. They come from somewhere else. The melodies that I hear come to me while I’m cooking, thinking about nothing but what’s on the stove.”
“Orange Crate Art” started with just a melody line. “I got the piece down, it’s a lovely little piece, I decided to slap some lyrics on it, just for fun, because I like to write songs for fun. It’s a diversion. And in the process–although I wouldn’t intend this, ever–it reveals something about myself.
