Lately, I’ve been a slackmaster, so I decided to start putting my writing exercises up here.
03.31.12
The power is flickering…
When I blink, the sky shudders. My screams unseat the stars. My whispers bloom to new world orders, the wisps curling to lengths a touch above Heaven’s edge. These tendrils trickle down their necks like sweat in retreat! I’m a voracious messiah, ready to gulp down entire worlds, entire fucking bodies. I’m awesome and contagious–and entirely hungry. It’s the hunger that really goes to my head.
Yes, I’m ready to gulp down this lump in my throat, and step out from the basement. I’m ready to disregard the darkness this basement has become, feel my way by the tap-tappet of my shivers, by the rap-rapcore of my boot scraping the rock bottom of it all. The way it all vibrates through me, the cold, the buckets o’ fear, the shadow of the gunman in my mind–these vibrate through me, and I’m alive from it. I’m alive to the situation. The situation is that I am someone who has no position in society. These thugs out there, the men about, they have no business with me. No indecency need occur here. I’m a nonentity.
I run a cleaning service, and I am a cleaning service, and I am completely clean. I clean basements of the brutal, simply brutal accumulation of junk that accumulates in these brutal, brutal basements. These are items which run through the house like a disease, just like a popular disease, and get deposited here: voodoo dolls, old hats and pulleys, pipes of all sorts (for smoking, for piping), old photographs that are newer takes of older photographs, pressed dragonflies, peppercorn grinders in the shapes of odd birds such as owls or peacocks–really, really specific stuff, just too specific to really care for, or even remember or realize it’s there. These are the forgotten payloads, the underground grocery store where no sales are made and also, no food is ever there. These are just made to be cleaned out, these basements, and that is the famished service I provide.
They should thank me. I’m a do it yourself kind of laborer. I’m. I’m lower-class, but I have an icy power to me. My heart is a cool room, filled with people looking about, as if in a punt of serious comedy. I’m a veritable masterpiece. There’s more to me than meets the cool, damp space I’m currently locked in, as if I don’t have a Revolutionary War hidden deep within me, to be whipped out at a tariff’s notice. Give me notice, will they? I’ll know them into the ground. I’m a punky tipper and my determination is like a burning cross against my heart. I’m on a progressive stint, and my momentum is about to get buck wild with public policy. I’m the new norm, and the institution will recognize my fictional encounters with silent racists. Their imaginary eyes always judge me based on a skin condition that isn’t even now visible in this lack of light or slight hope. I’ll take this Staggerford Hacker to the wall and Led Zeppelin my way into the sharp morning air!
That night, the body count rose by one.
sources:
Wikipedia Featured Article: Body Count
Writer’s Almanac: March 30th, 2012
saltednotion 