Saturday, September 17, 2011

The Thing

The Thing (an Excerpt)

The soldiers stood waiting impatiently for the sun to shine. They stood next to the THING and bent their yellow flaxen and black woolen heads back. They scanned the sky earnestly. Steel gray clouds hung low, crushed their spirit, and made then look dwarfish. They spat, cursed, and shifted their feet as if they were grinding ants with their boots. Women stood with them, flank to flank. Their uniforms fit them like balloons and gave them hulking shoulders. They cursed louder than the men.
The Civillian populace stood on the sidelines fanning flies and.watching also for the sun. They were eager for a reason to wave their crimson and royal blue flags. They wanted excitement, some kind of violent diversion. Football no longer made their asses twitch in ecstasy. Not even when the players were pitted against wild boars, bulls, or wounded elephants. The Civillians wanted nore. They stood on the verge of a whorehouse of an orgasm. Only the shining sun could release this last nut of lust and blood.

My Manhood is Very Important to Me

My Manhood Is Very Important To Me (an Excerpt)

I believe this, you can be a punk, but you just have to keep that punk shit on the downlow, you know what I’m saying? You know, don’t be actin’ all faggish and shit--wearing lipstick, wigs, and that eye shadow bullshit.

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I mean, I know Cheeseburger and Polo Mack, they some bad boys. Cause that’s what my Mama say they is. She call them “Northern Rats” ‘cause they hang around here in Hattiesburg, Mississippi on the corner of 30th Avenue and Jefferson Street, where I live. “Come down here to thaw out in the sun,” Mama say. They draw ugly things on my Mama ‘s white picket fence. They and some more boys call themself the “Folks.” They draw moons and stars and pitchforks all over her fence. She don’t say nothin’ to them. She just give them her hot eyes as she slaps fresh paint over their drawins on her fence. But she yells at me ever’ time they come around.
“They ain’t never said nothin’ to me, Mama. And I ain’t never said nothin’ to them,” I plead with her.
“They hang around here ‘cause you a gal,” my Mama say.
  Even when I walk quickly by them with my head down in my shoulders like a broke-neck chicken, my Mama don’t be no happier. She says if I was a son instead of a daughter, I would run them wild nigguhs away from her picket fence.
But there is somethin’ else too. I don’t know if Mama knows it or not, but I am in love with Cheeseburger. He is tall and skinny and the color of Mama’s mahogany dinin’ room table. He’s got a long thin neck that I want to hug. His eyes make me cry ‘cause they so sad and dreamy lookin’ . I want him to be dreamin’ about me. My Cheeseburger’s got a short square haircut like my boy cousin who’s in the army. Cheeseburger wears a small diamond earring. He reminds me of my best girlfriend, Thelma, who’s willowy like a black weed. Sometimes I don’t know why I love Cheeseburger. One day I love his eyes. Next week it’s his chest. Then later, the sight of his thighs sends me to heaven. I wonder if my Mama knows how much I love Cheeseburger. Wish she would say, “That boy make you a good husband, Della.” But then I probably wouldn’t want him no more.

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Red Underwear

I ran this ad, you see, because I was tired of being a lonely guy.  For the last couple of years, since my wife ran away with her dance teacher, I've regretted the days because they catch me in their desolate clutches.  I know I don't exist by myself on some vast island, but I am alone.  Sure there is the mailman who drops envelopes through the slot in my door; there is the upstairs neighbor's dog who whines every night at the wind; and there are the boys on my job at Zippy Delivery who aren't too deep.  I asked one of them, “What is life?”  He said that life was pussy.  That's all he could think of.  So despite all of that stimulation along with the animal sounds of the city and   the man and woman next door who beat on and love on each other until dawn, I was still lonely.
I went to the bars.  But bar people try too hard to be cool and sultry, as if they're owners of the universe and their silk clothes and gold neck chains are vestments of royalty.  I found myself silently berating them. 

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