Month: October 2012

Of course the bird was on the payroll of the witch. Little sneak, little tattle-tale, it took its fill of crumbs then flew off to let her know she could throw more wood into the fire: Dinner’s coming! The moon shone fitfully through the trees, its face of salt-raised bread as porous as the tales whispered to children in their beds. What’s that glinting under the trees? The smell of sugar wafts through the abandoned house like bad mojo. But what if she were simply a foil, a decoy, an easy target for the bones of a different story; some gypsy, homeless waif herself, subsisting by her wits alone at the edge of the world? Eventually, tresses begin to resemble a nest of twigs where there’s no call for hair appointments. Of course it will seem as though we stirred whole stews out of thin air, rolled dough into darling dumplings shaped like babies. I think the usual language for it is Making do. If I were you, I’d search for politicians lurking in the trees. If I were you, I wouldn’t believe all the stories I heard. Women are always getting a bad rap. Even the girl sitting alone in her room, stroking the fur of her cat, can wind up being blamed for stuff that disappears from the kitchen downstairs. Especially the one reading a book.

In response to Via Negativa: Hansel and Gretel revisited and lost: a story in eight pictures.

Zealots aplenty, in these days of misplaced belief; sure,
you can’t tell if the guy in the seat next to you’s an
ex-convict, but it’s just as difficult to discern
whether the suit across the aisle might have a moral
vacancy beneath all that expensive Italian wool and seemingly
unblemished perfection. A cultivar’s a plant variety
that’s forced from selective breeding— We’ve all heard
such histories: the dusky nanny under the pecan tree
reaching for her breasts and popping them into mouths so
querulous with hunger they don’t wonder why one tongue is
pink against the nipple’s dark areola, and the other
onyx. That’s a different time, people will say.
Nostalgia makes the past seem better. In the present,
meanwhile, we suffer the public bungling of fools
looking to ascend to public office. Wisdom,
kingliness, humanity, hope: we’ve grown wary,
jaded from exposure to their magnitude of lies.
Isn’t it time for the season to turn?
Have all the birds flown south for winter?
Gather the tender-leaved indoors and shield them
from the coming frost. Scarlet-lined, afternoons look
especially beautiful in autumn. It’s almost as if
death might never come reaping. Destiny’s a work
cobbled from castoffs. So come over here,
buy me a drink, offer your shoulder; buy us
a little more time before it all comes down.

In response to Via Negativa: Autumnal.

Deckle. Deckle— I like the sound of that.
And I like the sound of riffled papers,
of the bookmaker folding sheets and tearing
pieces off along a straight edge, by hand.
Then there’s the unexpected: discovery
of a paper cut along the thumb, sudden
script of water poured over its envelope flap.

In response to small stone (169).

The curtains part, the lion roars to signal the beginning of the story. The clatter of the reel in the silence of the hall, the grainy colors on the film. A woodpecker drills holes in the wood: repeats, repeats. You sit in the darkened theatre on a worn velvet seat. A woman’s face comes on the screen, as if in rapture though flames lick at her bound feet. It’s always like this— there’s danger at every turn, or the tedium of long afternoons as days shade toward winter. You learn to carry your own epiphanies. I prefer the versions with no dubbed captions: the eyes say so much more, and hands are good for gestures. Before too long, music foreshadows the closing credits. A scroll floats before your eyes with the words The End.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Black rice cakes rolled in sugar
and thickened with coconut cream.
Aroma of singed banana leaves.
Juice from cane or fermented rice,
sediment in the jar. Hungry,
always hungry— here
they come, asking for more.

In response to Via Negativa: Next Life.