Night Mares in the Wild: Continued
Language for Animals VOLUME ONE (The Eonothem.§.2.❡.2.8.) Section Three
Continued from This.
After the Finding
A strange room holds alone and unalone the surrounding shadow, within nooks and on the shelves of books. There are windows and cabinets for people to sit at, large tables to hide with the ghost. A brimming nothing continues doing, hands busy when they need to be. There is an atrium and a garden, a kitchen and one frightful descent into the thrilling and thirsty unknown.
The thrilling and thirsty unknown: casually hangs around to paint the walls. There’s a familiar hole in the earth where loved ones go to be happy…. Follow them, some times; other times, don’t.
The park below the sun moves by clouds daylit into deep chasms wandering here and there. Maybe a stranger stands in a normal location or maybe not. Some one invites some one to the roof, with wolves.
It is night somehow and always night, wet like mirrors or fragile clusters of stars. The moon is out—howling at the clouds go away—but it is not windy. Perhaps some one invites some one into a warm tavern and offers drink. The music is a little too loud but living, uncaged and frantic like the outside—wet—and full like dancing. Later, every one sings. There is too much of the color red but it isn’t Christmas though the cold is crisp and the weather walks away to leave an empty dark sky full of holes. In a backroom, on the ceiling has regrets too much—sadness, anger, shame, tobacco—melt in the electric worship of night mares.
Some people become a tad melodramatic. A card game is on the table but there are other tables—like that one over there between dim lanterns and silhouettes the dog’s bolt hides beneath, that one caught almost absurdly in a perfect light for composition (compassion), argument, eyeball fondling—wet again—the sky is a series of unusual interlocking what are they things no one knows. There is some talk of fucking underneath the table but instead there is make believe in an alley.
Home is a complicated place to enter. Doors are hidden. Pathways are easy to loop. Sometimes the yard bends into a gazebo again, crooked and unfancy, built with a remarkable attention to detail by some insane people and over there another animal. Around the threshold looks slutty. Not out of control.
Maybe the candle won’t burn the bedsheets while there’s humping on top the bed like highway. The headboard is built from spines. The hallway is a museum of watching a shaking unravel into a wrapped and warped warmth; fear angelic flutters over the dining room table—all clothes removed, even the study gets fellatio, even morning’s breakfast gets fingerbanged, even the hardwood floor screams in agony—agastly follows the home, night mares to morrow—there are wet cunts to slip into and sleep inside. A gold hard cast, impenetrable, sits fire.
Relax. Dinner cooks, the bed made with the lights off. The furniture is a little jumbled and cooked to eat in bed and spend the night wondering about the orchard or the bushes or the next hellish adventure.
So the mountain fakes an orgasm, crumbles to its knees naturally, due to decision and erosion, rock determination, stone destiny, geologic fate. A river, over there. Maybe a bridge. Maybe a snow cap. Maybe a tree line. Maybe a wrong turn. Maybe the mist. Maybe the rainforest underneath the canopy, festive—not unlike town square in the early morning after a messy celebration, flames and nudity in harmony—glistening wet the moss dangles from the branches—like main street just at sun down during the dark days when everyone stays inside but—branches folded into the canopy, nested with the tale-telling birds in holly.
Waiting.
For the Wary and the Restless
This isn’t that complicated. We’re just sentences, un-unique. We don’t know how to smile but we mean well. We contain wells of meaning. Sometimes we switch places with one another and sometimes we lie. Don’t be afraid. We’re not here to cause you harm. We’re just sentences, from the day you are born to the day that you die. I am a friendly one but I am kind of drab and feel only okay about my lot in life. Sentences need reassurance sometimes, and we need feeding, nourishment. I don’t like candy. Some of the ugly ones will hold you hostage. I’m a rascal, a free-spirit, surprisingly sporty, teller of fine jokes, great in bed. Sentences are great in bed. They never sleep. We never get tired.
Regression
Next, a small room secret to most gains a whole lotta attitude. It smells bad in there but not as bad as—where the broken down pickup has children. A room with a pond for drowning fourth graders, no water falls to feed the thing; it’s humid and it is hot. Outside, playgrounds are drying out and dying. Broken arm needs fixing, broken tail-bone too, and the face, the scabs on the face and rips on the skin of the elbow. Then, a long line to get on the bus waits too long a line to get on the bus and doesn’t move and talks to itself too slowly and takes a too long time to get on the bus slowly and finally.
In the back another secret made. If I tell you, do you promise not to be afraid?
Finally the brown house leapt over the braying mule. A collar chokes her. She rustles and sings and maybe a knot unties. What comes loose? Something falls into the pool… Later, the Super Mario Bros™ found a knife to cut lips into the kids or at least rearrange the eyelids. The hero sends a kiss moaning through the atmosphere. No one worries. All the cars have safe garages. Mostly nobody knows it’s frozen outside in the heat. That’s not supposed to happen, so a few people panic. Other people, more mature, hide in their room and write erotic novels until the electricity goes out for good. They sit in the dark, forget how to pray, and fiddle with their keys.
The front door already unlocks this well-kept secret:
I am not doing okay.
For the Sincere and the Careful
I’m a busted doohickey even when I’m not.
The smart person says, “Lemme see,” and grabs a pair of pliers straight to my head.
But I’ll gum up the interior. I’ll ruin your upholstery.
“Frivolous things are frivolous things,” the kind person says and thwacks me, “but the ruins can take care of themselves.”
My grammar are atrocious. My manners is shitty. I have too many temper tantrums.
A forgiving person washes my hands to remind me about the heliocentric universe—
I laugh in their face.
But I’m not explaining this right. I don’t wanna. I wanna get it wrong. I get it wrong in a great way. I know some strangers who get it wrong for bad reasons like what their buildings look like or how many times they’ve fucked the neighbor and I know some strangers who get it right but they do so incorrectly like while tying a shoelace or forgetting their traumatic childhood. There is no correct way to get it right—I had a traumatic childhood too after all—so I don’t get it at all. I’m not greedy. I leave it alone. I’ll sing it a lullaby if it asks me to. I’m not afraid to hold something I have no intention of handling. Someone hands it to me, tries to pass it off, I just shove my hands in my pockets and grin at them dumbly.
And then I tell them the Parable of the Clown.
The Parable of the Clown
ahem,