Saturday, December 4, 2010

Barthelme

I'd never really considered it, I guess.
It seemed such an idea, she says.
And there, close against the wrought-iron, can you see him? Straining, stumbling, his overcoat pockets various stuffed with crabapples, skeleton keys, sage leaves, clippings, honing stones and feathers?
His mien is plain, she sighs.
And see how he strains to remember, but he's distracted immediously, stupendiipifying.
She reaches out and places an oblong pill into my lip, and I subside.
He'll remember, soon enough, she says. See how he supports his self against the oak-frame now? And ceasing in his rummaging, he now pulls every feather from his pockets various, at last discarding pipe-ends, foil, fresh eggs, and fountain pens to claim each quill; each accent?
And he bundles them so- quills down, I whisper, struggling with the drySwallow of the oblong pill. My voice returning: To make a fine, much-pointed weapon for a downstroke- Thus! he illustrates, in one half-focused step away from the frame and out.
The moonlight through the wrought iron frames him terrible, and loverly, she says.
But framing is this wretch's weight, I say! And should have said yea, long ago, had not the pond'rous weights; mine own dreams plummeting; cast me so adrift beyond the swollen hold of all my memories.
Your 'membered memories, she ill agrees.
I had not all my strength, my compassion, when he had need of me most.
a bit of toast, with peanut butter, she mumberzles, and a cola. ice.
I was suborned, not clear to cleave the clovering fog that--
piece of cheese like a duck egg. poppy seed rye. the toast...
What's that, I ask?
Huhn? Oh... go on, then.
But see now! How he picks a thread-end from his stuffed overcoat, and produces something small from his HatBand.
A needle, wot!
He deftly knits the feathers in a fan, all flick and cartilage, anew! He goes, says I!
And so should you.

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