Owls
Owls. The word itself sensationing. Try it right now out loud: “Owls. Owls. Owls.” Owls belong to Picasso. The whole reason for writing about owls is to say, Picasso’s owls are wonderful. I drew an owl today for my son, in crayon. I always use crayon for the things I make for him – plain simply pure active colour – red reds, green greens, blues blues, orange oranges, purple purples, brown browns, black blacks borders. Out loud crayon colours for my son. All his creatures, figures, numbers, mobile alligator spider bird hand triangle star planet sunfish all out loud crayon colour for my son.
Picasso Owls Picasso Owls – they were named for each other.
Typing
Afternoon starving to the refrigerator open the door look around find nothing but a queasy stomach, go back sit down, cigarettes. Began with getting lost in one of Miller’s books somewhere between the Tailor and the Jabbowal, end up banging these keys to the sound of sobbing baby melody. My wife is away, she’ll trade a gallon or two of milk for some cigarettes and tapioca. We get free milk subsidy from the county, if money was milk we’d be rich. My stomach tight in a knot, I’m all awareness ready to go my whole sensory being dagger sharp from the stone of hunger. Ready to go, ready for action but there’s no action, no destiny - the only thing that happens is my stomach bubbles, the baby cries, my wife stays gone, I still bang away these keys my bony fingers running out of juice no lubrication only brittle creaking of over used abused bone against other brittle bone the sound the feeling the imagery of my fingers is all that happens, the drying up process is all, that and my body anxious for food and tobacco and the baby still cries and the wife stays gone and there are two cigarettes I found today on the front stair landing one of which will now cure half my hunger and give my fingers a chance to survive.
Rain
Rain. Night rain. Stimulating scent of rain. Heavy blotches after weeks of 90 degrees scent of summer rain rising from hot pavement. By the road side scent of summer barefoot children grateful in the rain. Night rain the sound of cars through the bedroom window, wide open hungry windows as is the earth as is the dwindling river as is the pavement and all the green and flesh and stone and scaly life for miles around hungry for fresh cool clean wet new rain.
The day past: a day of water cloudy sometimes sunny day of fishing for trout warriors, fierce quick warriors of the river cult. Catching first the dreaded sucker, small maybe two pounder of ugly brown flesh that have no desire to look at let alone touch. Scavenger so necessary yet so hideous repulsive bottom mouthed creature, thick human like lips quivering with barbed steel. Pulpy soft fleshy lips tender peeling with steel, soft fleshy no fine sharp teeth of the warrior cult, none of the beauty rather brown slug like shape and colour and human like lips forever in a perfect O.
Then in white water deep between my favourite rock and hillside bank hard bend pole hard white water vibrating the line pulsating right up my arm silver flash of battle. Bold all at once hit no nibbling cowardly attempts at thievery. Fearless lusty trout battle as water as silver flash as raw life all too quickly over as another silver flash brings quick simple knife strokes as is the fate of all captured warriors a quick clean death – only children and vile suckers given quarter.
The day past a day of water remembering plants, fishing, cloudy sometimes sunlight sky refusing to give up its pleasure until darkness drew it out softly slowly blotches trickling pleasure across hot ground like finger tips my lover trickles across my skin softly slowly growing heavier until pouring out a pleasure of caresses soaks the earth the skin the sheets.
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