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November 2010 - Amanda SledzAmanda Sledz

19
Nov 10

Scenes from November

Paw firmly pressed against glass window, hanging on with the force of his fingerprints. Wishing the glass fuller, the rain less cold and furious, his scarf less tight around his ears and the woman next to him some other someone with more interesting ideas and a shorter shopping list and a clothing style that solicited envy.

Yelled conversation into cell phone, a soulful request to download some of the worst music 1988 offered spit through braces and bouncing off bright blue hat. Someone says fuck it and starts smoking right on the bus, sucking down two full hits before the driver barks orders against him. Nicotine flowers my brain’s fire.

Challenged to remember what I did before this month shallow-graved me, what swashbuckled, patched and arg-barked my ship pirate before all slowed to standing water. Were my hands warm?

If I can wait out wet solstice sun will slow-banish dark and full moon will burn without veils through plastic. If I can wrestle my way up to snow level and stare at god-perch peaks or escape short-sleeved into desert orange, November could choke on her turkey. December could mistletoe drown.

Weaving love-me-nots with grandmother memory, a single stitch summoned again and again, winding uneven path to warm. Outside rain continues while I wither, alarm beeps to deepen sleep and funnel sorrow into dream.

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02
Nov 10

Career Day (Plotting of Future)

Mad Rambler

This uniform feels familiar. Unmonkeyed thanks to mittens, swaddling clothes for anxious digits twisting accusations. Thumb-tacked. Shoes shower-capped. Paper ribbons tied loose to yarn-spooled hair flat-ironed with heated horseshoe. Downright LUCKY.

No: unglued and unshoed. Everyone knows the only horse has feathers.

Fruit-juice in washpans from the bed of every foot at the foot of every bed from the spool of every head. This is the future friends, the future. Ask the army of ants exiting ear and evolving to pink-eyed plastic prior to window blind climb. War for the Pane, antenna-fired shots don’t bang or pop or pow or fizz, they squirt and pink eyes pin-drop. Koala with an x-marked spot escapes a neighboring narrative and inquires about the absence of bamboo. What the hell is there to eat around here? Giggle escapes mouth; not leather grip clutching wrist.

This is the future, friends.

Scavenger

Bottles and cans bottles and cans dumpster dive donut dollar rushing rusher bottles and cans bottles and cans thank you sir thank you ma’am bottles and cans bottles and cans.

Office Nutcase

Gather round wayward masses winking corner-office twinkies, foot shuffle downtrodden druthers! Did you see that one commercial with the guy from that show, not that one the other one, who wears the tie and does that thing with the football by the watercooler with that girl, the blonde one? Wasn’t that AWESOME? Oh tomfoolery, oh hapnappery, oh shenanigans hooligans happenstance, oh shitty mcfuckernuts, get me out of this habit or into a habit and unsex my dead nether forever. Required form in triplicate, two-6-dash-9-niner. Profits are down people, profits are down. Submit your request, submit submit, and for God’s sake get down from there, we only have the one bucket! Sign here and here and initial there.

Cult Leader

hallways slide from exit signs lined with sufficient logic for one uncomplicated thought colored neon with quotes from dead others, underscored passages in yellow holy books tucked quiet under eyelid. Agreement inspires declarations of being On To Something which satisfies small ego cookie starved since childhood. Now the stage is REALLY set. Little On to Something read this book and sign this paper and oh yes such a generous donation, I’m glad you were able to pay I mean play and oh here we go with that single thought (credit some other), giggle into the A-HA! more coaching and working of the One Thing already said (you’re really On To Something!). About this second thought – whoa, whoa, slow down, let’s not go complicating the story, let’s stick with what works, these methods have been tested and these thoughts have been thought out by other thinkers with thought pre-thunk for your thinking, so let’s just stick to the thought now why don’t we, don’t you think? This is love, my friend, a great bear hug swept under rug, oh come here fragile little flower, tucked and untucked, come here little hungry cookie drunkard for your mittens.

Firestarter (Arsonist)

CrackerJack offers a REAL PRIZE, fortune tidy foil-wrapped. Damp fumbling fingers scry the six-point font warning whispered through the 1950s into Emergency Exit of Here and NOW: THIS IS THE MESSAGE.

The beginning is only beginning.

This is the future, friend. The future.

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