Ling Diary

 

                     

 

 

I want this story told, or should I say retold

fragments a full day later:

                                         [The Heroine––her

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.]

                                                   Remotely

                                             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.

                                                    The writer’s

reprieve, he thinks, because the rest think

he’s the crazy one. Really crazy. He talks in

signs

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.

                                                                    We looked

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-

other.

           Our eyes speak

                                        sans pen and paint

dude ain’t right.

~~~~~~~~~~~~