Wednesday, June 2, 2010

the myth of the woman who scared easily

There are cold bats hanging from the ceiling of the room where your hat gets hung. There are worms in the earth. There is something that will crawl across your skin and just freak you out.

Hear the sound, canid or feline, in the empty woods of wherever, that sounds like it could kill you before it even needs the spears in its mouth?

You could write a novel about caves stuffed with days that are darker than death. You could eat an ice cream cone and stroke out. Not even have time to come up with one word to describe how it feels.

Doesn't matter much.

The only thing sure is that airplanes will continue to fall from the sky like cigarettes dropped out of highway cars. Oil fire as the only mirage. Floods and all that. Plain godawful gestalt.

At night, when it crashes and scatters, you'll hear the floorboards scream some ugly ass ancient song, some bone-splitting tone; you'll be caught with your pants down or without pants at all. The careful days will unravel and flap.

Remember the myth of the woman who scared easily. Her moral. And her hair, the color of dark ale, fine enough to cut through rock.

(Old Pine by Cecilia Lieder)

No comments: