You know the part in The Road where they leave Omar naked at the side of the path and the man admonishes the boy for sulking, thinking it’s his job to care and be concerned about every wretched soul who would slit his throat and eat his sweetmeats, “You’re not the one who has to worry about everything,” says the man and the boy mumbles something under his breath then Viggo challenges, rough, and the boy yells, “Yes, I am! I am the one!” and I start crying?
This isn’t like that.
In other news, I was biking on 27th and HEY! did that say slut? Backpedal camera fishing standing on a fire hydrant. Shore nuff.
I spied it again at 27th and Nic. Huh.
megh
March 30, 2010 at 6:33 amGranted, the second says “Sluto.” Esperanto, perhaps?
Gabe
March 30, 2010 at 6:58 amI still need to see The Road. The paint was chewed off the brick by the voracious tree shadow’s passage. “Slut” has been around for years now.
In other news, it is going to be SEVENTY-EIGHT DEGREES. TOMORROW.
megh
March 30, 2010 at 7:07 amHow have I missed slut all these years? Always lookin’ up, I spose. That’s an electrical pole, but it used to be a tree, so fair enough. I could arrange you getting the Road, brah. And 78 degrees, dear lord. I might even take off my long johns.
Gabe
March 30, 2010 at 8:38 amhungry ghost tree
Luke
March 30, 2010 at 7:43 pmIn response to that part of The Road, what isn’t like that? As for the Slut in the road, could you get her number for me?
megh
March 31, 2010 at 6:52 amTrue that, Luke. The Gospel of the Road speaks to and through all. Slut might be hard to get a hold of, but I’ll keep eyes skinned for digits next time I see the tag. Also–she might not be a she at all, soooo be advised.
EwaMarQui
April 5, 2010 at 12:38 amTo Do ~ Ewan Martin Quirk 2010
There are pages and stories and books yet untold,
about the wrighting of myths and the smelting of gold,
these arts and these alchemys woven of straw
the threads and the sinews are pulled from the bones
and through memories lens a lifetime is honed
Each book that I take from its place on its shelf
leaves an outline of loss in the library of self.
These poems and stories are woven of straw
as growing the stack totters and leans all askew
I ask you dear reader, what means this to you?
At the end of each chapter, at the end of this verse,
Will I find myself lessened, am I living a curse?
The parts of my heart that make up this braid,
Are they leaving me empty, will I ever be sure?
Will the wellspring of muses allow me some more?
There are no more stories, they were pieces of my heart
the telling leaves an echo, an emptiness, a lack.
The pain that etched them there cannot bring them back.
They cannot be reinvented nor lived through again
hearing them leaves me wondering was it now or is it then.