I want this story told, or should I say retold
fragments a full day later:
thought ended exactly––privately––by the
glass containers at the edge of our village.
What’s left of her fits on a porcelain shard.
She’s dream speak
timeless, the fourth
book of a trilogy, public for another day.]
the writer writes
from jail. One line, half of a breath, follows
this young inmate’s scream. He got the big one
tonight thinks the writer––was the prize for the
winning hand to the wrong dick. Charlie won’t
be the same after Big John and Phantom 409.
reprieve, he thinks, because the rest think
he’s the crazy one. Really crazy. He talks in
and symbols. He mentions his only job is to in-
crease his connection with God.
He lectured them
on what he calls ling. He says he got it out of
a literary book, but no matter. He says he under-
stands the witchcraft part. He says the prosecutor
and the judge and that candy-appled public de-
fender couldn’t get past witch.
“Don’t they get
it?” he asks. “There’s proper witchcraft and there’s
the other. All they know is the other. It’s all any of
us know. They put me in here for being a witch.”
Stay away from him. He thinks way too much of
himself. That’s what we say.
He goes on and on
about the invention of writing. Fuck that. Use the
phone. That’s what we say. He starts in with Henry’s
pen scratching in birds’ feet through the green paint.
He says it’s not as pastel as the river sand.
at each other. What’s pastel?
“fluvial sand,” he
adds. “I was commanded to invent Writing.”
Stay away from him we glanced from one to an-
Our eyes speak
sans pen and paint
dude ain’t right.