Swallowing the Spoken Word

Nov 01, 2020, 05:11 PM
“I blame you kid. Why’d you have go and do a thing like that? What the fuck were you thinking? Giving a boy a gun. Baby, there’s nowhere to run. Don’t you see? The boy has a pen. The boy is not thinking straight. In fact, the boy’s not thinking at all. Look up, would you! For heaven’s sake, not mine. It’s dark outside, dark enough to send all the children to their respectable caves. But you must know the night. The grass is wet with the mist that your skin is giving off. Aren’t you just a little bit curious what I taste like these days? What are you so afraid of? Sleeping with the dead? No! You cannot hold this fear. It will steal the life out of you. It will take my body from your bed. It will leave me on Dove Street screaming like a baby. She rode a purple tinted metal stallion up a tiny hill and never even looked behind. She went to work. It all worked out exactly as she planned. Her plan was in numbers. She churned letters into ideas. It took her 30 years to write up these conclusions, 30 more to see them into fruition. Today she works. Tomorrow she dies. She forgot to turn around. She forgot her own sight. She forgot she had left a boy crying on the train. Reflections are powerful things. I have been told my gaze is intrusive. What are you seeing? Tell me your story! Tell me how we came to be. Do you remember?”
 Juniper lies in the shade and waits for the sun to change her mind. The sun turns everything into flames. Juniper digs himself into the earth and grows limbs from the remains. His branches are thick. The blood is pulsing too quickly. The boy is sick. The fever is breaking. The end is creeping closer and closer and no one suspects a thing. The boy is yelling at the top of his lungs. His new body is a signal of distress. His flesh is a warning. Her eyes are his only weapons. There is a whip on his hip, a bow on his back, and a bunch of arrows in the palm of his hand. He’s throwing up a peace sign backwards, because secretly he hates everything. Go fuck yourself. The end was perpetrated. The bond between the two spirits was consensual. Now they dance in Palm canyon, only one body remains. The boy sings for rain. Juniper disintegrates. Jade tells a story to thin air, the quality of it is sickening. She breathes it in. The boy listens. I remember a little girl. She was nine. I was six pretending to be ten. She whispered that she needed presence; that I was never allowed to go away again. I creamed. I’ll stay! Time is all mine and there is nowhere I’d rather be. Babygirl. It is you.”
“Stop! Sage, please! Shut the fuck up! This isn’t funny. Two young kids died on a train last night. I think they were supposed to be us? What did you do to our fate? You’re twisted up! Un-fuck yourself immediately. I don’t have time to play games. The night wants you, and you want to run. Where will you run? If all you see is flames and ash, where will you hide? You’ll blame me for burning you alive. Bodies were burned like candlesticks to light the ever-growing night. When the day never came again, limbs became flares. The show must go on! Do you think we would stop performing for each other if it came down to necessities? I think our animal would shine. I think your nature would run to me. I think a childlike intuition would burst through the chard skin of every animal left behind. I think you’d be happy with the end. They’ve made a weapon out of your skin and bones. Are you ready to defend the cluster of shit that you’ve given yourself ownership of? You won it fair and square. You abided by every law the artist could think to draw. Now the picture looks like this. The artist is throwing a temper tantrum in a room full of butterflies. He’s splashing blood over a canvas, trying to fix the mess he’s made. But its too late, its already been created. No matter how much blood is given, the picture remains. Picture this; there is no more time and nobody cares. There’s a bearded boy standing outside a building with a baseball bat and a wooden spear. The blade is very dull. The thought of it terrifies him. He bought it to show off his ability to kill, but now he fears he’s bought all the wrong things. There’s a dark woman in the kitchen. She is listening to a young boy sing. He sings of her death. She dances for rain. They are both prepared to defend what remains. Till death, dare they part?”
“Stop P. Please. I don’t want to think of dead kids on a train. I want to hear your voice again. I don’t care about this place. It has never belonged to us. I’d rather close my eyes and breathe. Do you want to know what I see in this? I see one of my feet stepping out of this sick dream, then the other. Then seven billion bodies do the same. It is not violent movements; it is a single breath that you take. It is deciding to never speak this language again. I don’t want this. In this, I am without you. I set it down. I refuse to play along. The game is over. Lets play snakes on a train. Cops and robbers is a vicious game. I don’t want to hoard food and watch you starve.  I don’t want to run. I want to find you standing in my doorway. I want your blues to pierce through my skin. I want to start undressing without saying a thing. I want to sit on my mattress without inviting you in. I want to lie on my tummy and start whining. I want to feel you take initiative. I want to need you. I want to be held in this suspended state. I want to beg. It is of my own free will that I wait. When you come inside, I will be shaking violently. You will have to tie me down to keep me still. You don’t understand, I know. I had to remember everything. I had say it aloud. I will save my love with my tongue. With my eyes shut tight, she will see me cuffed and alone, begging like a dog. I will have no shame. With my sense of taste I will conserve time. Do you want to know what my time feels like, sliding down the back of your throat? Go ahead. Close your eyes. Swallow. I’ll show you everything. It’s not what you think it is.”