Saturday, July 26, 2003
No Title As Yet
Mary is purple. Claire is not purple. Sharon is, except for a pair of pink fluffy bunny slippers that adorn her feet, naked and is barking like a dog. Sharon is purple and half not purple.
They are friends. They are in Mary’s house, in her kitchen.
“Woof! woof!, woof!” barks Sharon.
Claire pats Sharon’s head and gives her a cookie, which Sharon gobbles down.
“Who’s a good girl then, says Claire, scratching Sharon under the chin, who’s a good girl.”
“There’s a storm a brewing, says Mary, I can feel it in my bones.”
Grey clouds. Witches. Somewhere in Africa, a small bird pick nits off a hippo’s back.
Sharon crawls around the kitchen on her hands and knees. Mary looks out a window. Claire thinks of fine china.
“Yes, there’s a storm a brewin’, for sure”
“Can we drink tea from the fine china cups, tonight, Mary, please, can we?”
“Sure we can, sweetie, sure we can…hey, Sharon, stop sniffing my butt, bad girl!”
Sharon goes all pouty –lipped, doe-eyed sad.
The storm comes on like a satanic wet dream. Mary and Claire enjoy their tea from their cups. Sharon licks hers up from her bowl. They are safe.
Mary, who is purple, goes to her bedroom, to her bed, pulls out a shoe box, from underneath the bed. The shoebox is filled with photographs.
Photograph one: Claire holding up a hoop, and Sharon jumping through the hoop.
Photograph two: The three women as three teenagers, cheerleaders.
Sharon is wearing clothes.
Photograph three: A rabbit having sex with a cat
Photograph four: A tawny frog-mouthed owl.
Photograph five: Mary at university, when she wasn’t purple
Photograph six: Claire dressed up as an onion for the third grade pageant.
Photograph seven: You and me in a next life, taking a photo of a bird on a hippo’s back.
Photograph eight: a bird on a hippo’s back.
Photograph nine: The woman as girls in a gondolier in Venice, Italy.
Photograph ten……
makes Mary and Claire cry, and Sharon whimper and howl.
Mary begins to bang her head against a wall. Blood streams out of her head and down the wall.
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
Sharon inserts three fingers into her own vagina, and cries all too human tears.
Claire, stands to attention like a soldier.
““Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
The storm stops. The bird flies off the hippos back. Claire wraps a bandage around Mary’s head, kisses her lips. Sharon sleeps, now, in her basket.
The sun rises. The women wake up. Claire, the non purple one, makes breakfast.
“How’s your head this morning, Mary?”
“My head is not a quadratic formula; it is a peaches and vanilla ice cream orgasm”
Claire smiles, the sun shines, Sharon pisses on the kitchen floor.
“Sharon!” the Mary and Claire yell out in unison.
Sharon knows that she has been naughty, but gives them a “who me?” look.
“She’s been inside, too long” says Mary.
“Yes”, says Claire.
She (Claire) opens the door, and Sharon runs outside, to the front lawn.
The neighbors stare and gawk at her nude body.
She is Neputina, Marine boy’s girl friend, she is the fourth power puff girl, and she is Lassie,She is the harvest moon. She is water; she is the dog token in Monopoly. She is a squeeze box and a mandolin that play maudlin tunes. She is a madrigal sung by a Mediterranean peasant girl who should have been a princess. She is purple and half not purple. She is naked but not nude. She loves her pink fluffy bunny slippers.
Claire watches Sharon through a window
Claire is not purple, nor is she a twig. She is a buttered scone with cream and strawberry jam. She is Audrey Hepburn. Her body is covered in cigarette burns, her arms criss-crossed with razor blade scars, she is Scarlet watching the mansion burn down, and she is
Gidget on her surfboard, and Sister Bertrille flying over the monastery. She is the American flag, the Rock of Gibraltar, a catholic school girl in a torn and bloody first communion dress.
She is the search engine of seduction.
Mary eats Weetbix, four of them, with milk and sugar, in bowl.
Hail Mary, thou art purple. She is the leader. She is a dolphin, a whale, a mouse, chocolate pudding in a crystal bowl. A mirror smashed, a Mrs. Do-Bee. She won’t let her basket fall. She is Little Red Riding Hood, the pig that made her house of defense mechanisms
out of bricks, she is Daffy not Bugs. Her pain is not an abstraction. She is not really a mouse, but she is very mouse like. She is secretly afraid of Sharon’s pink fluffy bunny slippers, but puts up with them because she love Sharon.
Mary and Claire clean up the kitchen and go outside to play with Claire. The neighbors have gone off to work. Bees buzz around the women’s garden—like the dashes and hyphens in an Emily Dickinson poem. They enjoy themselves. And much to a hippo’s relief, a small bird returns to his back.
See you in our next lives, and remember to bring your camera.
You can be purple.
Some Time, In The Past, Something Terrible, And Now Forgotten,
Happened To Mary, Claire, And Sharon. And Now They Live Their Insane Lives
As Though Insanity Were Completely Sane, Unlike You Or I Or A Hippo And A Bird.
Mary is purple. Claire is not purple. Sharon is, except for a pair of pink fluffy bunny slippers that adorn her feet, naked and is barking like a dog. Sharon is purple and half not purple.
They are friends. They are in Mary’s house, in her kitchen.
Sharon continues to bark. Claire pats Sharon’s head and gives her a cookie, which Sharon gobbles down.
“Who’s a good girl then?” asks Claire, scratching Sharon under the chin, “Who’s a good girl?
“There’s a storm a brewing, says Mary, I can feel it in my bones.”
Somewhere in Africa, a small bird pick nits off a hippo’s back.
Sharon crawls around the kitchen on her hands and knees. Mary looks out a window.
Claire thinks of fine china.
“Yes, there’s a storm a brewin’, for sure”
“Can we drink tea from the fine china cups, tonight, Mary, please, can we?”
“Sure we can, sweetie, sure we can…hey, Sharon, stop sniffing my butt, bad girl!”
Sharon goes all pouty –lipped, doe-eyed sad.
The storm comes. Mary and Claire enjoy their tea from their cups. Sharon licks hers up from her bowl.
Mary, who is purple, goes to her bedroom, to her bed, pulls out a shoe box from underneath the bed. The shoebox is filled with photographs.
Photograph one: Claire holding up a hoop, and Sharon jumping through the hoop.
Photograph two: The three women as three teenagers, cheerleaders.
Sharon is wearing clothes.
Photograph three: A rabbit having sex with a cat
Photograph four: A tawny frog-mouthed owl.
Photograph five: Mary at university, when she wasn’t purple
Photograph six: Claire dressed up as an onion for the third grade pageant.
Photograph seven: You and me in a next life, taking a photo of a bird on a hippo’s back.
Photograph eight: a bird on a hippo’s back.
Photograph nine: The woman as girls in a gondolier in Venice, Italy.
Photograph ten……
makes Mary and Claire cry, and Sharon whimper and howl.
Mary begins to bang her head against a wall. Blood streams out of her head and down the wall.
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
Sharon inserts three fingers into her own vagina, and cries all too human tears.
Claire stands to attention like a soldier.
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
The storm stops. The bird flies off the hippos back. Claire wraps a bandage around Mary’s head, kisses her lips. Sharon sleeps, now, in her basket.
The sun rises. The women wake up. Claire, the non purple one, makes breakfast.
“How’s your head this morning, Mary?”
“My head is not a quadratic formula; it is a peaches and vanilla ice cream orgasm.”
Claire smiles. Sharon pisses on the kitchen floor.
“Sharon!” the Mary and Claire yell out together.
Sharon knows that she has been naughty, but gives them a “who me?” look.
“She’s been inside, too long,” says Mary.
“Yes,” says Claire.
She (Claire) opens the door, and Sharon runs outside, to the front lawn.
The neighbors gawk at her naked body.
Surely someone, sane, should be looking after these crazy women.
Sharon is Neputina, Marine boy’s girl friend. She is the fourth power-puff girl. She is Lassie. She is the harvest moon. She is water. She is the dog token in Monopoly. She is a mandolin that plays maudlin tunes. She is a madrigal sung by a Mediterranean peasant girl who should have been a princess. She is purple and half not purple. She is naked but not nude. She loves her pink fluffy bunny slippers.
Claire watches Sharon through a window
Claire is not purple, nor is she a twig. She is a buttered scone with cream and strawberry jam. She is Audrey Hepburn. Her body is covered in cigarette burns. Her arms are criss-crossed with razor blade scars. She is Scarlet watching the mansion burn down. She is Gidget on her surfboard. She is Sister Bertrille flying over the monastery. She is the American flag. She is the Rock of Gibraltar. She is a Catholic school girl in a torn and bloody first communion dress.
Mary eats Weetbix, four of them, with milk and sugar, in bowl.
Hail Mary, thou art purple. She is the leader. She is a dolphin, a whale, a mouse, chocolate pudding in a crystal bowl. A mirror smashed, a Mrs. Do-Bee. She won’t let her basket fall. She is Little Red Riding Hood, the pig that made her house of defense mechanisms out of bricks, she is Bugs not Daffy.
Her pain is not an abstraction. She is not really a mouse, but she is very mouse like. She is secretly afraid of Sharon’s pink fluffy bunny slippers, but puts up with them because she loves Sharon.
Mary and Claire clean up the kitchen and go outside to play with Claire. The neighbors have gone off to work. Bees buzz around the women’s garden—like the dashes and hyphens in an Emily Dickinson poem. They enjoy themselves. And much to a hippo’s relief, a small bird returns to his back.
See you in our next lives, and remember to bring your camera.
You can be purple.
Sharon is naked She barks like a dog. Claire pats Sharon’s head and gives her a cookie, which Sharon gobbles down.
“Who's a good girl then?" asks Claire, scratching Sharon under the chin.
"Who's a good girl?"
“A storm’s coming," says Mary. "I feel it in my bones."
Mary, Claire and Sharon all live together in a rustic bungalow. They are all purple. Red and blue mixed together.
Somewhere in Africa, a small bird picks nits off a hippo’s back.
Sharon crawls around the kitchen on her hands and knees. Mary looks out a window.
Claire thinks of fine china.
“Yes, there’s a storm coming for sure."
“Can we drink tea from the fine china cups, tonight, Mary, please, can we?”
“Sure we can, sweetie, sure we can.”…
The storm comes like a poem, that you don’t fully understand, but which you find sort of unsettling.
Mary goes to her bedroom, to her bed, pulls out a shoe box from underneath the bed. The shoebox is filled with photographs.
Photograph one: Claire holding up a hoop, and Sharon jumping
through the hoop.
Photograph two: The three women as three teenagers, cheerleaders.
Sharon is wearing clothes.
Photograph three: A rabbit having sex with a cat.
Photograph four: A tawny frog-mouthed owl, a witness to something terrible.
Photograph five: Mary at university, when she wasn’t purple.
Photograph six: Claire dressed up as an onion for the third grade pageant.
Photograph seven: You and me in a next life, taking a photo
of a bird on a hippo’s back
Photograph eight: a bird on a hippo’s back.
Photograph nine: The woman as girls in a gondolier in Venice,
Italy.
Photograph ten……
makes Mary and Claire cry, and Sharon whimper and howl.
Mary begins to bang her head against a wall. Blood streams out of her head and down the wall.
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
She says to God, the trees, the owl, the rabbit, the cat, the storm, the books, and to the screaming lust dust of past torment.
Sharon inserts three fingers into her own vagina, and cries all too human tears.
Claire stands to attention like a soldier.
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
The storm stops. The bird flies off the hippo's back. Claire wraps a bandage around Mary’s head, kisses her lips. Sharon sleeps, now, in her basket.
The sun rises. The women wake up. Claire makes breakfast.
“How’s your head this morning, Mary?”
“My head is not a quadratic formula; it is a peaches and vanilla ice cream
orgasm.”
Claire smiles. Sharon pisses on the kitchen floor.
“Sharon!” the Mary and Claire yell out together.
Sharon knows that she has been naughty, but gives them a “who me?”
look.
“She’s been inside, too long,” says Mary.
“Yes,” says Claire.
She (Claire) opens the door, and Sharon runs outside, to the front lawn.
The neighbors gawk at her naked body.
”Surely someone, sane, should be looking after these crazy women,” a neighbor says.
Sharon is Neputina, Marine boy’s girlfriend. She is the fourth power-puff girl. She is Lassie. She is the harvest moon. She is water. She is the dog token in Monopoly. She is a mandolin that plays maudlin tunes. She is a madrigal sung by a Mediterranean peasant girl who should have been a princess. She is naked but not nude.
Claire watches Sharon through a window
Claire is she a twig. She is a buttered scone with cream and strawberry jam. She is Audrey Hepburn. Her body is covered in cigarette burns. Her arms are covered with razor blade scars. She is Scarlet watching the mansion burn down. She is Gidget on her surfboard. She is Sister Bertrille flying over the monastery. The pig that made her house of defense mechanisms out of bricks she is the American flag. She is the Rock of Gibraltar. She is a Catholic school girl in a torn and bloody first communion dress.
Mary eats Weetbix, four of them, with milk and sugar, in bowl.
Hail Mary, thou art purple. She is the leader. She is a dolphin, a whale, a mouse, chocolate pudding in a crystal bowl. A mirror smashed, a Mrs. Do-Bee. She won’t let her basket fall. She is Little Red Riding Hood. She is Bugs not Daffy. Her pain is not an abstraction. She is not really a mouse, but she is very mouse like. She is secretly afraid of Sharon’s pink fluffy bunny slippers, but puts up with them because she loves Sharon.
Mary and Claire clean up the kitchen and go outside to play with Claire. The neighbors have gone off to work. Bees buzz around the women’s garden—like the dashes and hyphens in an Emily Dickinson poem. They enjoy themselves. And much to a hippo’s relief, a small bird returns to his back.
They are friends. They are in Mary’s house, in her kitchen.
“Woof! woof!, woof!” barks Sharon.
Claire pats Sharon’s head and gives her a cookie, which Sharon gobbles down.
“Who’s a good girl then, says Claire, scratching Sharon under the chin, who’s a good girl.”
“There’s a storm a brewing, says Mary, I can feel it in my bones.”
Grey clouds. Witches. Somewhere in Africa, a small bird pick nits off a hippo’s back.
Sharon crawls around the kitchen on her hands and knees. Mary looks out a window. Claire thinks of fine china.
“Yes, there’s a storm a brewin’, for sure”
“Can we drink tea from the fine china cups, tonight, Mary, please, can we?”
“Sure we can, sweetie, sure we can…hey, Sharon, stop sniffing my butt, bad girl!”
Sharon goes all pouty –lipped, doe-eyed sad.
The storm comes on like a satanic wet dream. Mary and Claire enjoy their tea from their cups. Sharon licks hers up from her bowl. They are safe.
Mary, who is purple, goes to her bedroom, to her bed, pulls out a shoe box, from underneath the bed. The shoebox is filled with photographs.
Photograph one: Claire holding up a hoop, and Sharon jumping through the hoop.
Photograph two: The three women as three teenagers, cheerleaders.
Sharon is wearing clothes.
Photograph three: A rabbit having sex with a cat
Photograph four: A tawny frog-mouthed owl.
Photograph five: Mary at university, when she wasn’t purple
Photograph six: Claire dressed up as an onion for the third grade pageant.
Photograph seven: You and me in a next life, taking a photo of a bird on a hippo’s back.
Photograph eight: a bird on a hippo’s back.
Photograph nine: The woman as girls in a gondolier in Venice, Italy.
Photograph ten……
makes Mary and Claire cry, and Sharon whimper and howl.
Mary begins to bang her head against a wall. Blood streams out of her head and down the wall.
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
Sharon inserts three fingers into her own vagina, and cries all too human tears.
Claire, stands to attention like a soldier.
““Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
The storm stops. The bird flies off the hippos back. Claire wraps a bandage around Mary’s head, kisses her lips. Sharon sleeps, now, in her basket.
The sun rises. The women wake up. Claire, the non purple one, makes breakfast.
“How’s your head this morning, Mary?”
“My head is not a quadratic formula; it is a peaches and vanilla ice cream orgasm”
Claire smiles, the sun shines, Sharon pisses on the kitchen floor.
“Sharon!” the Mary and Claire yell out in unison.
Sharon knows that she has been naughty, but gives them a “who me?” look.
“She’s been inside, too long” says Mary.
“Yes”, says Claire.
She (Claire) opens the door, and Sharon runs outside, to the front lawn.
The neighbors stare and gawk at her nude body.
She is Neputina, Marine boy’s girl friend, she is the fourth power puff girl, and she is Lassie,She is the harvest moon. She is water; she is the dog token in Monopoly. She is a squeeze box and a mandolin that play maudlin tunes. She is a madrigal sung by a Mediterranean peasant girl who should have been a princess. She is purple and half not purple. She is naked but not nude. She loves her pink fluffy bunny slippers.
Claire watches Sharon through a window
Claire is not purple, nor is she a twig. She is a buttered scone with cream and strawberry jam. She is Audrey Hepburn. Her body is covered in cigarette burns, her arms criss-crossed with razor blade scars, she is Scarlet watching the mansion burn down, and she is
Gidget on her surfboard, and Sister Bertrille flying over the monastery. She is the American flag, the Rock of Gibraltar, a catholic school girl in a torn and bloody first communion dress.
She is the search engine of seduction.
Mary eats Weetbix, four of them, with milk and sugar, in bowl.
Hail Mary, thou art purple. She is the leader. She is a dolphin, a whale, a mouse, chocolate pudding in a crystal bowl. A mirror smashed, a Mrs. Do-Bee. She won’t let her basket fall. She is Little Red Riding Hood, the pig that made her house of defense mechanisms
out of bricks, she is Daffy not Bugs. Her pain is not an abstraction. She is not really a mouse, but she is very mouse like. She is secretly afraid of Sharon’s pink fluffy bunny slippers, but puts up with them because she love Sharon.
Mary and Claire clean up the kitchen and go outside to play with Claire. The neighbors have gone off to work. Bees buzz around the women’s garden—like the dashes and hyphens in an Emily Dickinson poem. They enjoy themselves. And much to a hippo’s relief, a small bird returns to his back.
See you in our next lives, and remember to bring your camera.
You can be purple.
Rewrite/New Title:
Some Time, In The Past, Something Terrible, And Now Forgotten,
Happened To Mary, Claire, And Sharon. And Now They Live Their Insane Lives
As Though Insanity Were Completely Sane, Unlike You Or I Or A Hippo And A Bird.
Mary is purple. Claire is not purple. Sharon is, except for a pair of pink fluffy bunny slippers that adorn her feet, naked and is barking like a dog. Sharon is purple and half not purple.
They are friends. They are in Mary’s house, in her kitchen.
Sharon continues to bark. Claire pats Sharon’s head and gives her a cookie, which Sharon gobbles down.
“Who’s a good girl then?” asks Claire, scratching Sharon under the chin, “Who’s a good girl?
“There’s a storm a brewing, says Mary, I can feel it in my bones.”
Somewhere in Africa, a small bird pick nits off a hippo’s back.
Sharon crawls around the kitchen on her hands and knees. Mary looks out a window.
Claire thinks of fine china.
“Yes, there’s a storm a brewin’, for sure”
“Can we drink tea from the fine china cups, tonight, Mary, please, can we?”
“Sure we can, sweetie, sure we can…hey, Sharon, stop sniffing my butt, bad girl!”
Sharon goes all pouty –lipped, doe-eyed sad.
The storm comes. Mary and Claire enjoy their tea from their cups. Sharon licks hers up from her bowl.
Mary, who is purple, goes to her bedroom, to her bed, pulls out a shoe box from underneath the bed. The shoebox is filled with photographs.
Photograph one: Claire holding up a hoop, and Sharon jumping through the hoop.
Photograph two: The three women as three teenagers, cheerleaders.
Sharon is wearing clothes.
Photograph three: A rabbit having sex with a cat
Photograph four: A tawny frog-mouthed owl.
Photograph five: Mary at university, when she wasn’t purple
Photograph six: Claire dressed up as an onion for the third grade pageant.
Photograph seven: You and me in a next life, taking a photo of a bird on a hippo’s back.
Photograph eight: a bird on a hippo’s back.
Photograph nine: The woman as girls in a gondolier in Venice, Italy.
Photograph ten……
makes Mary and Claire cry, and Sharon whimper and howl.
Mary begins to bang her head against a wall. Blood streams out of her head and down the wall.
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
Sharon inserts three fingers into her own vagina, and cries all too human tears.
Claire stands to attention like a soldier.
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
The storm stops. The bird flies off the hippos back. Claire wraps a bandage around Mary’s head, kisses her lips. Sharon sleeps, now, in her basket.
The sun rises. The women wake up. Claire, the non purple one, makes breakfast.
“How’s your head this morning, Mary?”
“My head is not a quadratic formula; it is a peaches and vanilla ice cream orgasm.”
Claire smiles. Sharon pisses on the kitchen floor.
“Sharon!” the Mary and Claire yell out together.
Sharon knows that she has been naughty, but gives them a “who me?” look.
“She’s been inside, too long,” says Mary.
“Yes,” says Claire.
She (Claire) opens the door, and Sharon runs outside, to the front lawn.
The neighbors gawk at her naked body.
Surely someone, sane, should be looking after these crazy women.
Sharon is Neputina, Marine boy’s girl friend. She is the fourth power-puff girl. She is Lassie. She is the harvest moon. She is water. She is the dog token in Monopoly. She is a mandolin that plays maudlin tunes. She is a madrigal sung by a Mediterranean peasant girl who should have been a princess. She is purple and half not purple. She is naked but not nude. She loves her pink fluffy bunny slippers.
Claire watches Sharon through a window
Claire is not purple, nor is she a twig. She is a buttered scone with cream and strawberry jam. She is Audrey Hepburn. Her body is covered in cigarette burns. Her arms are criss-crossed with razor blade scars. She is Scarlet watching the mansion burn down. She is Gidget on her surfboard. She is Sister Bertrille flying over the monastery. She is the American flag. She is the Rock of Gibraltar. She is a Catholic school girl in a torn and bloody first communion dress.
Mary eats Weetbix, four of them, with milk and sugar, in bowl.
Hail Mary, thou art purple. She is the leader. She is a dolphin, a whale, a mouse, chocolate pudding in a crystal bowl. A mirror smashed, a Mrs. Do-Bee. She won’t let her basket fall. She is Little Red Riding Hood, the pig that made her house of defense mechanisms out of bricks, she is Bugs not Daffy.
Her pain is not an abstraction. She is not really a mouse, but she is very mouse like. She is secretly afraid of Sharon’s pink fluffy bunny slippers, but puts up with them because she loves Sharon.
Mary and Claire clean up the kitchen and go outside to play with Claire. The neighbors have gone off to work. Bees buzz around the women’s garden—like the dashes and hyphens in an Emily Dickinson poem. They enjoy themselves. And much to a hippo’s relief, a small bird returns to his back.
See you in our next lives, and remember to bring your camera.
You can be purple.
Rewrite/New Title:
Something Terrible
Sharon is naked She barks like a dog. Claire pats Sharon’s head and gives her a cookie, which Sharon gobbles down.
“Who's a good girl then?" asks Claire, scratching Sharon under the chin.
"Who's a good girl?"
“A storm’s coming," says Mary. "I feel it in my bones."
Mary, Claire and Sharon all live together in a rustic bungalow. They are all purple. Red and blue mixed together.
Somewhere in Africa, a small bird picks nits off a hippo’s back.
Sharon crawls around the kitchen on her hands and knees. Mary looks out a window.
Claire thinks of fine china.
“Yes, there’s a storm coming for sure."
“Can we drink tea from the fine china cups, tonight, Mary, please, can we?”
“Sure we can, sweetie, sure we can.”…
The storm comes like a poem, that you don’t fully understand, but which you find sort of unsettling.
Mary goes to her bedroom, to her bed, pulls out a shoe box from underneath the bed. The shoebox is filled with photographs.
Photograph one: Claire holding up a hoop, and Sharon jumping
through the hoop.
Photograph two: The three women as three teenagers, cheerleaders.
Sharon is wearing clothes.
Photograph three: A rabbit having sex with a cat.
Photograph four: A tawny frog-mouthed owl, a witness to something terrible.
Photograph five: Mary at university, when she wasn’t purple.
Photograph six: Claire dressed up as an onion for the third grade pageant.
Photograph seven: You and me in a next life, taking a photo
of a bird on a hippo’s back
Photograph eight: a bird on a hippo’s back.
Photograph nine: The woman as girls in a gondolier in Venice,
Italy.
Photograph ten……
makes Mary and Claire cry, and Sharon whimper and howl.
Mary begins to bang her head against a wall. Blood streams out of her head and down the wall.
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
“My pain is not an abstraction.”
She says to God, the trees, the owl, the rabbit, the cat, the storm, the books, and to the screaming lust dust of past torment.
Sharon inserts three fingers into her own vagina, and cries all too human tears.
Claire stands to attention like a soldier.
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
“Her pain is not an abstraction.”
The storm stops. The bird flies off the hippo's back. Claire wraps a bandage around Mary’s head, kisses her lips. Sharon sleeps, now, in her basket.
The sun rises. The women wake up. Claire makes breakfast.
“How’s your head this morning, Mary?”
“My head is not a quadratic formula; it is a peaches and vanilla ice cream
orgasm.”
Claire smiles. Sharon pisses on the kitchen floor.
“Sharon!” the Mary and Claire yell out together.
Sharon knows that she has been naughty, but gives them a “who me?”
look.
“She’s been inside, too long,” says Mary.
“Yes,” says Claire.
She (Claire) opens the door, and Sharon runs outside, to the front lawn.
The neighbors gawk at her naked body.
”Surely someone, sane, should be looking after these crazy women,” a neighbor says.
Sharon is Neputina, Marine boy’s girlfriend. She is the fourth power-puff girl. She is Lassie. She is the harvest moon. She is water. She is the dog token in Monopoly. She is a mandolin that plays maudlin tunes. She is a madrigal sung by a Mediterranean peasant girl who should have been a princess. She is naked but not nude.
Claire watches Sharon through a window
Claire is she a twig. She is a buttered scone with cream and strawberry jam. She is Audrey Hepburn. Her body is covered in cigarette burns. Her arms are covered with razor blade scars. She is Scarlet watching the mansion burn down. She is Gidget on her surfboard. She is Sister Bertrille flying over the monastery. The pig that made her house of defense mechanisms out of bricks she is the American flag. She is the Rock of Gibraltar. She is a Catholic school girl in a torn and bloody first communion dress.
Mary eats Weetbix, four of them, with milk and sugar, in bowl.
Hail Mary, thou art purple. She is the leader. She is a dolphin, a whale, a mouse, chocolate pudding in a crystal bowl. A mirror smashed, a Mrs. Do-Bee. She won’t let her basket fall. She is Little Red Riding Hood. She is Bugs not Daffy. Her pain is not an abstraction. She is not really a mouse, but she is very mouse like. She is secretly afraid of Sharon’s pink fluffy bunny slippers, but puts up with them because she loves Sharon.
Mary and Claire clean up the kitchen and go outside to play with Claire. The neighbors have gone off to work. Bees buzz around the women’s garden—like the dashes and hyphens in an Emily Dickinson poem. They enjoy themselves. And much to a hippo’s relief, a small bird returns to his back.
Friday, July 25, 2003
Eat In Or Take Away
The aroma of olives, cheese, cold meats, and coffee beans
reminds Joe of his father who didn’t make it to Australia.
Tortured and shot dead like a dog and tossed into the streets like a pig.
Joe, with the taste of rage, revenge, and grief- rancid and bitter in his throat,
had wanted to run to him.
But his mother and an aunt stopped him.
That’s what the government death squad had wanted.
Back home, in the village,
he had cried until it felt as though somebody else was crying
and he was merely a witness to his own mourning.
The feel of the touch of his 6 year old daughter's hand on his own
brings Joe’s mind back to the present, to the shop.
“The lady’s talking to you, Dad”
The lady is a blonde, about 23;
her white uniform squeezes her body, exaggerating the presence of her breasts.
Joe consciously doesn’t stare at them.
The sun shines on them, through a window
Like a spot light, like some cosmological trouble maker.
“Can I serve you?” she asks.
Her voice is like a bird’s,
like that happy blue bird on his daughter’s favorite DVD.
“Two falafels, one black coffee and a chocolate milkshake, have here”
“Dad, this milkshake tastes sensational like a kiss from a chocolate fairy.”
says his daughter.
'Sensational' being a word that her father overuses,
as did the grandfather she never met.
“Rebel Leader Shot Dead By Opposing Faction” was the headline run by government sanctioned newspaper
reminds Joe of his father who didn’t make it to Australia.
Tortured and shot dead like a dog and tossed into the streets like a pig.
Joe, with the taste of rage, revenge, and grief- rancid and bitter in his throat,
had wanted to run to him.
But his mother and an aunt stopped him.
That’s what the government death squad had wanted.
Back home, in the village,
he had cried until it felt as though somebody else was crying
and he was merely a witness to his own mourning.
The feel of the touch of his 6 year old daughter's hand on his own
brings Joe’s mind back to the present, to the shop.
“The lady’s talking to you, Dad”
The lady is a blonde, about 23;
her white uniform squeezes her body, exaggerating the presence of her breasts.
Joe consciously doesn’t stare at them.
The sun shines on them, through a window
Like a spot light, like some cosmological trouble maker.
“Can I serve you?” she asks.
Her voice is like a bird’s,
like that happy blue bird on his daughter’s favorite DVD.
“Two falafels, one black coffee and a chocolate milkshake, have here”
“Dad, this milkshake tastes sensational like a kiss from a chocolate fairy.”
says his daughter.
'Sensational' being a word that her father overuses,
as did the grandfather she never met.
“Rebel Leader Shot Dead By Opposing Faction” was the headline run by government sanctioned newspaper
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