coughing on the pavement

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                               coughing on the pavement

                     with whiskey and crispy apples     

 

                                                        by

                                                 annie   e    burie  

                                                                                          

 

 

 

 

 

 

(an epic poem) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grace looked at the pavement

in her body a cold tremble took over her movements,

she began to count to herself to

control her breathing.

in — out.   slowly Grace focused on the man.

she had never met him before

but his face was one she remembered

 

at the age of twenty-three Grace had a dream.

in the dream she was in a small room

with two men in black suits.  in front of her was a tv.

they were forcing her to watch.

in her dream there was two of her.

one in color watching her being forced to watch the tv,

and the other watching the tv. 

stoically she watched her

black and white self being forced to watch, crying. 

herself in color had no idea what was on the screen.

only that the other self was young and cocky,

and still crying

when she woke up from the dream she was terrified.

as though it was the beginning of something horrible.

Grace never told anyone about the dream,

as though to speak it would bring it to reality

The dream was to Grace

                                                          a  payday

                                                                                                          time travel

                         

                          a cold wind

                          foreshadowing

                        

                         a bloody wound

                         from bad cop/ good cop movie

                        

                          like intuition  gripping                  24 hours 

 

 

now at age 24, on Washington St.

 Grace saw one of the men from the dream.  

 

 the child inside her grew. Grace walked past Grant

into the coffee house.  breathe.

 

 

lately Grace had been sick.  very sick.

   her head would separate from her body.

   she would lose sensation of her feet, her legs.

   her hands, everything tingled. her breath short,

        as though she had just climbed Mt Olympus

 

 

worn and dizzy    Grace’s thoughts became clear

although her body was breaking.

 

 

 

her vision was something

of a peculiarity as well. 

at times Grace would see

tiny silver shining objects pulsating

and rotating around her material world

 

 

now as Grace tried to make sense of the dream

and the man Grant, the sickness took hold of her

 

the pain started in her stomach

 

she almost fell over as the pain

grew in strength

bending her over

 

Grace felt like meowing.

 

ME-OOWH—

 

her face contorted into grimacing pain

she looked up and saw the

proprietor of the coffee shop staring at

her

 

Grace smiled and said ‘hi’

 

did he see the pain?                          she sat down

     shaking inside, her head was burning up

 

Grace started to pray, ‘god, if I die         oh help me

I don’t want to die

  

her teeth were on fire.  her gums were numb

 

and now this. 

 

—her friend Liz asked if she wanted to go to Orange Rock.

         Grace heard yes come out of her mouth.      ‘why did I

just say yes’            Grace pondered silently. 

  ‘let me finish my coffee first’

   Grace pushed out with all her strength.    

 

 

Liz stood looking at her impatiently

 

Grace rocked back and forth in the blue and white

chair, sipping the freshly roasted java.   Yum.

 

Grace looked down at her cup, empty.  time to walk

back to Liz’s house.  Grace brought her cup back

             inside the coffee shop.  she placed it in the

sink.  ‘thank you,’ Grace mumbled. 

 

outside the coffee shop

Grace saw Phil, an oddball local.                          he wanted a hug.

she gave him one

reluctantly.   

he smelled like a dog.

 

Grace wanted to ignore him, but the kind part of her

asked how he was doing.  Grace tried to focus on

what Phil was saying. it was something about logarithms

and words.  she had no idea, numerology,

a myth science, but interesting. 

                                                                       in the corner of her eye Grace saw Grant

   one minute now.  ‘I have no minutes.

   I have nothing’ Grace pondered

   as her hands scrambled around

   in her pockets

 

Grace gave Phil a wave, and walked off. 

 

‘good bye Grant’ said Liz.  Grace hid her horror, ‘how does she know him’ Grace deliberated silently.  Grant waved back.   Grace walked away to hide her sweating face.

breathe

Liz started to complain about not having a boyfriend as she caught up with Grace.

 

   Grace   couldn’t imagine. 

  ‘the possibilities are endless,’ she said

  ‘all the cute boys bobbing about.  look, there’s one.’

 

Liz sighed at Grace—it had been 2 million years.

Liz wanted a relationship, a someone special

to go to the beach with or bike riding.  someone to

fuck, and talk about the ridiculousness of greed.

 

a cure for loneliness.

 

Grace wanted to sit down and tell Liz to go on without

her.  but she didn’t, something akin to pride kept

Grace sliming her way to the top. 

 

Liz wanted a long-term relationship.  Grace told her

to enjoy her freedom.

that’s typical thought Liz. Grace had a boyfriend.

 

they walked up the huge hill. Grace’s thoughts became

desperate.  Grace felt like she was on acid.  the sky

was bright, oh my god, this is a beautiful day blue

a few white clouds,

stories were meant for days as today,

  ‘could we stop for a while?’

   Grace tried to express.

 

Liz was still thinking

about her next boyfriend. 

Grace asked if Liz would date a short guy.

Liz said

‘it didn’t matter what he looked like, as long

as he was hot.’ this made Grace laugh. ‘so you would

date a short guy?’            ‘yes Grace’  Liz said,

puzzled at the direction Grace was going. 

‘so you want a hot short guy?’ Grace

snorted out, laughing

snot bubbling

 

‘I’m short’ said Liz.   

 

‘so am I’ said Grace.

 

‘so you want a short artsy hot guy,

 that sounds simple enough’ Grace choked out.

 

 

‘a musician as well’ stated Liz as she rubbed her thumb and pointer finger together.

 

they walked in silence as they made it to

the church parking lot adjacent to

Liz’s house. 

 

Grace wanted to sit down, and cry, but she kept her

composure, and continued in the reality at  hand.

 

‘you’re too picky’ Grace said, slightly annoying Liz

‘I am not’ Liz said as her spit hit Grace’s sun burnt nose.

 Grace poked Liz in the arm, the spit still glistening.

 

‘I know, I was joking. you’re desperate for cock and balls’

Grace said in a flat tone.

 

Liz groaned as she unlocked the back door, ‘I am not.’

 

as they entered her house Grace told Liz she was a loser.

 

Liz had lived there for a little less than a month,

and already it had that special,

lived in appearance.  Liz’s paintings ordained the walls,

the bright colors, and abstract images of the familiar

made the house seem like an interior decorator lived in the pantry closet.

there were glass jars with dried beans, rice, spices,

  and flour on the window edge.  there was the smell

of incense, and freshly baked bread.

fresh mint drying, hung carefully by string on the key hooks

there were little place mats on the table with

 mauve and green muted flowers. 

 

the house was neat and orderly, it reminded Grace of her childhood home. 

Grace knew that any man that dated Liz would

be lucky. 

she was hard working and highly talented.

Grace lightheartedly envied

Liz’s potential.

 

her flowing skirt, her soft figure, her golden hair,

her easy smile

Liz didn’t know it

but she was a keeper. 

 

 

‘I don’t have my swimsuit’ complained Grace

 

 

‘you can wear one of mine’ said Liz

 

 

 

Liz handed her a dark blue suit with a pair of shiny black shorts.

 

‘these are ridiculous’ stated Grace as she held up the shimmering shorts.

 

‘why, you can fit them?’ Liz asked. 

 

 

‘they are too slippery’ remarked Grace as she pulled them over the swimsuit.

 

‘this swimsuit is awesome though’ Grace told Liz.

 

‘yeah, I know, my sister gave it to me’ Liz replied. ‘you can’t keep it.’ 

 

 

 

Grace sat down and rolled two cigs, she gave one to Liz.

 ‘are we ready?’    they both asked,   ‘jinks’ they

said at the same time, smiling at their

childhood-like dorkiness. 

 

with towels, bottled water,  tobacco, and raisins the ladies started on their journey to Orange Rock.  they climbed into the car, tossing their belongings into the back.   the wind had picked up but the sun shone on with purpose. 

 

‘what you wanna listen to Grace’ asked Liz.  ‘anything’   Grace replied with her head leaning on the window.  Grace still felt sick.  the pain had lessened but her body felt like an old lady’s, shrinking and brittle, mothballs and cobwebs covered her essence, her limpidity.     the dream draped Grace’s mind, she bit her chapped-bottom lip, felt the peeling skin on her tongue.   ‘ ha ha    a deadline, that’s what I need.’ Grace said as she clapped her hands together.  Liz ignored Grace’s sporadic villain laugh and display of zealous spirit.  Liz had other dreams floating in her nose, you know, the old in-out;  gentle man, thirsty woman.   Grace fixated on the idea of a deadline, the more she thought about a deadline, the more the pain in her seemed to dissipate.  Grace crackled, hooted, yelled ‘a deadline’. she held her mouth, and then let out an uncontrolled snort.  ‘he can’t play video games, not all the time’   said Liz.  

 

              on a bicycle they passed a middle-aged man with brown lacking hair. 

‘a hottie!’ Grace yelled with her head hanging out the window.   as Liz checked him out she made a disgusted look.  ‘he forgot to take the comb out’ said Liz.                        Grace said,  ‘What?’  mouth left open ‘too flashy for you?’

Liz put Sigur Ros into the player.    

 

 the music carried them to the parking space. 

they spilled out of the car in a trance

as if they had just exited solitary confinement. 

 they both shuddered in loneliness

unaware of the other’s gaping silence.  

they followed their feet down the 

pine needle laden path,

 over roots and sticks,

 stones and sand. 

there were little green and brown acorns.

an assortment of leaves. 

  the path went down, then up, and back down,

it giggled to the left, and then yelled to the right

walking fast they spilled over onto the large rocks

of the lake’s shoreline.  some of the rocks were

 jagged and rough. some were worn smooth

 

the scene looked like something in a fantasy movie,

the enchanted land and vast fresh water told a story of

magic and mystery.  the lake was said to never release the

dead. the cold water crashed and the wind

blew hard.  the waves looked enormous

 to the two women staring down at where they would jump

 

 on the

top of the rock there were orange lichen

the surrounding rocks were black.   

when    ever Grace stepped on the lichen she felt a tinge of pain

the soft sponge colony, and her, their clad foot destroyer.

 

Liz discarded her backpack, got ready to jump, she looked

back to Grace and asked her if she is coming.

 

‘no’ said Grace

 

‘come on’ and with that Liz jumped.

  15 feet below Liz’s splash reached Grace’s fevered face.

 

the cold water rushed to hold Liz in its greedy hands

as if to say, ‘feed me, die today’

 

the waves pulled Liz, and cold made pings of pain

radiated over her once sweaty flesh.

 

‘how’s the water’ Grace shouted down

 

‘its warm’ shot back Liz

 

‘You fucking liar’ said Grace.

 

 

Liz wore a child’s smile, dove in and did a flip

 

Grace watched joy expand

 

then realizing it was her turn, thought about

smoking instead.

 

Grace was tired, and in pain

but the cold water

 reached its hand out

to her hot stinking body

 

‘jump and I will heal you’

it whispered

 

 

Grace looked down at the large waves

crash over the rocks

 

a need grew, trying to overtake her

 

 ‘Fuck it’ said Grace

and jumped

 

 

the water swarmed into the crevices

of her body

 

it’s fuckin freezin’

 

Grace tried to make it back to the

rocks

her limbs ached

 the lake checked out her olfactory glands

tasting the back of her throat

 

as Grace pushed the water, the waves hit her

from all directions

 

for a moment Grace felt like she was going to be another what not to do story.

 

Grace couldn’t breathe, and her body would

not follow her instructions

 

 

she leaned her head back, and let her feet reach the surface.

breathe

Grace recalled the stories of sea monsters, and the myths that

surrounded kitchi gami.  gray shadows darkened underneath, the water ripped and lengthened.  The sun parachuted through the water establishing depth in some areas, and skewing perception in others.   

 

Liz thoughts were pace-less, and free.

her arms moved her body with ease unto the rock.

 

Liz jumped back in, this time feeling refreshed rather than the

earlier shock. 

 

 

Grace pulled against the rock, heaving her weakened body

she lay breathing and waiting for the pain to end.

 

the sun hit their goose bumps; the air raised the water to another

dimension

 

Liz stood with her butt to the worlds largest

fresh water lake on the rock 20ft above,

‘you ever see me jump off backwards?’ she asked, as kid would say ‘watch me.

 

 

‘Yeah, and you’re crazy’ said Grace.  

 

 

‘just imagine if my chin hit the rock,’ Liz stated as though it

would never happen.

 

 

‘I’m never going to do that, not now, not after that image’

Grace said as she wrapped her arms around herself, and shivered at

the thought, gasping internally at the horror of such

an event, faithfully believing it would happen

within the next second.

Liz jumped, ‘yikes’ squealed Grace

 

 

Liz called up, ‘what did you say?’

 

‘Nothing’ Grace shouted like a drunken mouse would.

 

 

the two women soon tired of the cold water. 

Liz had forgotten her water shoes,

 and because of this labored to get to her glasses.

  without them the world was smears of hues and forms,

 symbols not yet given names. 

 

Grace picked them up and handed them to Liz. 

they settled on a worn rock, it was rounded and

 looked like it had been specially formed for the two woman throng.

they lay on the rocks for a thousand years,

and watched the sun settle over the trees many times.

  in their inner world peace and tranquility mounted their fragile shapely bodies.  Grace did not think of her deadline, and Liz did not desire a man.  they desired only the moment to be captured and strung on their necklace of life. 

 

time lay still again and

they pulled their heads off the rock,

gathered their things, and went backwards to where they began.

 in the car comments about food fell

out of their hungry mouths onto plates of how about pasta and basil.

 

 ‘I’ll cook’ said Liz.

 

‘lets go out to eat’ battled Grace.  

 

 

soon it was      dark

 and having full bellies,

and wine, they began to sing.

 it was an odd duo,

one sounding passion through a raspy portal

 and the other voice falling from the great expanse.

 Liz strummed the guitar delicately

 with smooth 7 beat riffs,

in perfect slide,

rolling gently on the ear’s yes spot,

 come on give me some more spot,

 heads nodding. Liz’s face was smooth, and steady.

 

 Grace’s face was plain and shaking.

 her eyes, dark blue noticed the details.

 she had a smile that smirked; it was dashing, and forgettable.

she looked like your friend from Ohio, or Maine, or Wisconsin

with her head cocked to the side,  and mouth slightly open.

when Grace smiled and laughed you felt like you were home. 

   there was something trust-worthy and good about her,

 underneath the corky jokes and bitter zingers.

 it was hard to put your fingers in

but worth while. 

 

‘I have to leave soon’ remarked Grace

‘where you going?’ asked Liz.

‘I have to wash clothes’ Grace lied.  she wanted to go home and get a good nights rest. She had to have her wits about her for the deadline. 

Grace ripped the hair tie out of her long brown hair, thinking to herself, another day of not brushing, as it snagged and ripped at her head.  thinking she should cut her hair Grace tightly wrapped it on the back of her head.

 

  Liz’s mind drifted back to a lover, a friend she had wanted to capture, with no luck, had slipped away.  did he know how she felt, weakened, Liz put herself back in his arms, and eloquent words, his soft touch, and patient eyes, they were like a lake. as many times Liz had looked into them they were never flat, never alluded to an end point, a bottom.  there were many layers she had not been able to see, although Liz had wanted to measure the time it took, she was not given the years. ‘You damn fool’ Liz told herself, ‘you are a day- dreaming stupid girl.’

 

Grace said good-bye and walked back to her one bedroom         apartment.

twenty minutes in the freezing rain, coughing and wondering where the rain

snuck up from      where the pain snuck up from.  

 

 a white-walled sanctuary where

 no one told her what do or how to live,

where Grace could expound into the night,

retrace the day-dreams that had filled the day

it was messy     smelled of stale coffee,        and rotting bananas.

after the ritual of tidying and bathing,

 Grace rested on the couch.

 

 a part of Grace wanted to give up on life,

on responsibility,

on breathing

 but there was also a part that would never concede.

 

 Grace was just worn out and tired, from the overload of sediment, caused by the dammed rivers, the over-tinkering of man. 

 

 Grace felt her self being swept away by the current and wind,

not enough of her left to grab a hold of;

 Grace was forced into displacement

and following the path of least resistance. 

 

at first it felt unnatural,

but as Grace began to accept it,

 warmth covered her, and in it she found a hiding purpose.

 

as Grace closed her eyes      she watched a stream of  p   i  c  t u  r  e  s

fly from her mind into the firmament.

getting rid of all the unneeded images that had cluttered her being,

 Grace felt refreshed, and at ease.

 she let slumber settle and expand through her limbs,

gambling on rejuvenation for the coming day,     Grace slept.

 

 

Liz sat on her porch as the rain came down around her.  she was cold but she stayed outside, capturing the desire for warmth, Liz thought about a man she had recently met. ‘maybe he will come over’ Liz said out loud to herself.  Liz had invited him earlier that day, at the coffee house.  he had told her he was photographer. he was young and beautiful.  his words were generous and soft.  Liz doubted his interest in her.  she was not the pencil-thin blond, wearing pink that only thoughts were ‘how do I look. but now Liz wondered if she should care more.  Liz said ‘damn’ under her breath, while touching her thigh.  It was soft and smooth, but not a size 7.   her orange skirt glittered under the street lamp and from the street, if someone walked by they would have seen a vision of rare beauty that Liz could not find in the folds of fabric or the uplift of her chin.  Liz could not see the flash in her green eyes, or the outpouring of light that highlighted her being. Liz was giving in to loneliness, and desire as Grant pulled up in his beat up brown truck.  Liz became giddy and needy, nervous and steady.  ‘hi’ she called out with a wave.  Grant didn’t hear her, or see her.   as he came closer to her porch, he noticed Liz.  ‘hello’ he said with choppy strength. 

 

Grant’s hair was tied in ponytail behind him bouncing with the ease of his steps towards her.  they began to talk like old friends, like they were the other half of each other, knowing and understanding each others beliefs and ideas.  they could relate about family matters, and music.  greed and basil.

            the night stretched before them and laid at that their damp feet.  they had found their way into Liz’s house. they sat and drank coffee. smoking and laughing, their dreams started to unite on the sofa.  they made no comment about love or interest, although underneath Liz’s skirt grew a swirling.  in her beat a need.  she did not know what he thought of her.  did he just want to be friends, and how could they have so much in common.  it was beyond her.  Liz put her hand next to his hoping he would hold it.  he didn’t but talked of his brother who was into playing video games, and the incomprehension of how his little brother could waste so much valuable time.  Liz told of her materialistic shopping sister who had more jeans than Liz had paints. 

Grant noticed the way Liz’s lips parted when she laughed, and thought about touching her face.  he didn’t want to seem like a creep though. they had only met a few weeks ago, but Grant started to imagine her hands touching him.  one button, two button.  Grant refused to allow himself to act on his impulses, he had a job to do after all, and a brown eyed wife at home.   he pulled himself together, “what time is it” he asked. ‘3:30’ Liz said.  I better go he told her. as Grant got up he stretched out his arms for a hug. 

Liz readily accepted, and felt a tinge of pain as it ended.  Liz followed outside, the birds sang and the air was still cool.  ‘bye-bye’ Liz said as he pulled out of the parking lot.  ‘why did I say bye-bye?’ she asked herself,    ‘I hate me.’

 

 

     the alarm clock went off, Grace sluggishly opened her eyes.  ‘why did I set my alarm for seven?’ she asked herself, groaning and rubbing her bed head.  she lay in the bed watching the sun make vibrating patterns on the white wall.  she almost went back to sleep, but then sat up straight, and said ‘its go time.’ 

 

Grace made a cup of coffee with her press and smoked five cigarettes.   she took a shower and put on black pants and a black turtleneck sweater.  Grace put on her black hiking boots, and double tied the laces.   she brushed her hair.   in a black leather bag Grace put one white sundress, her white swimsuit and a bottle of red label whiskey wrapped in a white towel.  Grace started on her walk.  every couple minutes Grace put her hand in her pocket as she headed for her deadline.  Grace giggled at reality as her head swayed and body extended with each stride. 

 

across town, Liz woke early from the sound of the cars moving and going with passengers headed for the day.  she sang sweetly to herself as she painted Grant’s left eye from memory.  on the counter lemon grass tea brewed.        the morning wobbled between moments of extreme joy to deep doubting sadness.  what did he think of her,     could he also be smitten? 

she decided she would go to the coffee house and see if he was there. 

 

 

 Grace was fast-approaching the coffee house.  she was locked inside of her own mind.   pain penetrated her body.  she didn’t notice channel six’s van parked on the corner.  she didn’t notice the camera woman filming the downtown area for blueberry fest.  she didn’t notice the sun, or the way the birds sang.  she only knew that today was the day, and the tiny vibrating dots taking over her vision.  she climbed five flights of stairs with her head down and breath short.  she peeked over the edge of the building.  Grant was sitting there like everyday reading the paper and drinking coffee, slowly bringing a cigarette to his pretty lips.    ‘predictable thought Grace, ‘predictable and stupid.’ 

 

Liz saw Grant sitting outside on the blue and white chair.  he looked like a sculpted god with sun shining on his long brown hair.  ‘Yum’ she thought. she felt excited and a puddle formed in her panties, I need to get laid she thought to herself.  she began to walk faster.

 

 

Grace pulled the mechanic god out of her pocket.  she turned off the safety.  Grace opened the barrel. closed it again.  Grace began to feel giddy and needy, nervous and steady.  Grace looked at the pavement.  in her body a cold tremble took over her movements, she began to count to herself to control her breathing.  in – out. slowly Grace focused on the man she had never met.

 

as Liz ran as fast as she could. she fell to the ground.  Grant’s left eye was hollowed and a warm sticky river left his body, splashing and spurting onto the blue and white chair his body rocked on.   he coughed on the cold pavement    with his head in her hands.  Dead.  Gone.  No more.  Bye-bye.  So much for love.  So much for life.

 

 

Grace stumbled as fast as she could to the elevator.  she changed into her white swim ware and dress.  Grace put the shiny metal into her pocket,   placed her clothes and boots into her black bag.  she let her hair fall around her. barefoot Grace walked towards the harbor.   Ha ha she had done it; the world was free of evil once again.  Ha ha. Grace opened up the whiskey and took a pull, and put it back in her bag.  ‘a deadline is better than  circumcised cunt’ she thought to herself, laughing and stumbling, laughing and stumbling, as whiskey dripped from her uplifted mouth. Everyone loves a payday she hooted out and fingered a check between her two breast that was now safe to cash.    

 

 

 

the camera crew had got the shooting,

 and the cops looked endlessly for the hit man who had done it. 

 

    Liz sat inside the police station, being forced to watch the shooting on a tv.  she was young and cocky and still crying as the cop asked her how she knew Grant. demanding answers Liz did not yet have. 

 Grace went to the police station, and stood behind the Plexiglas watching Liz cry.  there was one man standing there and pointing at the screen rambling, and accusing. she remembered him.  the cop was the second man in the dream.

 breathe

 ‘what do bad cops dream’ Grace mused as she looked at the man wearing black, coiling her hair around her pointer finger.  

 

 

 “Do you know who he was?”

  Liz said ‘no.’

 “He was an undercover cop.

  He was working undercover.

 He had been my partner for little over a year.” the man told crying Liz. 

 

 leaving her shocked and confused, the cop released Liz.  she got up and walked out of the small room.  Grace stood there    standing with a blank face.    

 ‘are you okay?’ 

 

‘yeah’ said Liz. 

 

Liz coughed out ‘I was falling for a stealthy pig named bobby.’

 

 Grace said a soft  ‘I know’ 

 with her shoulders bent forward.

 her words hit the pavement

               the leaves 

              a pop bottle and candy bar wrapper. 

 

 

 

they never spoke of Grant again, although from time to time their minds would travel back to the sticky chair rocking in the sun.  one carried a missed lay within her chest and the other marveled over the transcendence in her pocket, and they both knew all dream states require action for submission to follow.  the pain lifted but the sickness remained.     this was not the first  nor the last time  Grace’s submitted to her dreams. Besides they all became reality with or without a little help from god.  

 

 

as their feet stepped on Washington St. Grace said, ‘lets go to the lake.’

 

 ‘I need a boyfriend’ said Liz.

 

  ‘Look around, there are lots of cute boys, look at that little crispy apple’ said Grace. 

 

‘he is hot’ said Liz.   ‘want some whiskey?’ asked Grace, thrusting the bottle at the apple.  ‘red label?’ 

 

the young man with red hair smiled at Liz and Grace as he walked into the coffee house.

 

‘lets get coffee first’ said Grace.  ‘I want apple pie’ said Liz. 

 

‘macintosh’   the two women hummed as the door bounced behind them.

 

  

*

 

molly and the nutty dozen: a work in progress

     So I admit I don’t know my audience. That is probably because I don’t have

one.  It is very hard to get to know something that you don’t have. 

     I assume that my audience will be humans but perhaps gorillas are a better choice.

I am still on the fence on this. 

     How hard could it be to learn sigh language?  I have hands. I already can sign the

letters of my name and mojo. 

      I need a couch.  I have lived in this spot for almost nine months and still don’t have a couch. The air mattress popped.  Blame my friends that come over with knives and hot dogs.  They are always messing up the place and won’t leave when I tell them it is a bad time and I must make roasted chicken.  Gravy is not something you can start and then forget.  I tried to watch the debate.  There were two men I have never met that kept repeating the same thing. The pale one looked a little sick and I wondered if he had eaten.  I  am sure he had.  He was very old and you know how old people like to eat on time.  It keeps them regular.  I think it is good to be a regular. 

      But my friends, the nutty dozen raised by sailors and farm hands kept making jokes about mayonnaises.  Their jokes are very complicated and full of stops and pretend gaffes.  I am not sure I got them or the debate.   I couldn’t focus.  The nutty dozen were spinning bottles on their heads and the two men were saying things about taxes and change. I am taxed but I don’t worry about change.  Even if I know some change is coming I too am never comfortable with it.  It takes me a long time to adjust and by the time I do, something unexpected happens. I have change in a jar. It is not worth worry.   Why don’t cashiers hand you the coins first and then the dollars.  I’m not the only person who doesn’t appreciate an awkward handoff. The nutty dozen look up to me as a leader.  They are never together unless with me and they take my ideas as law.  The night of the debate I told them to shut the window up and they were silent for a good twenty seconds while I am informed them who to vote for on November fourth. They were really glad I told them to vote for younger one.  They said they did not like the sounds that old people made when they ate and felt much better about someone who was not tortured.  They said that kind of thing could really put a damper on a party.

     The nutty dozen is actually a group of five but in my wisdom I said I’d call them the nutty dozen so that is clear we have room to grow. 

     They are an odd group. I make them even.  They are very different from one another but share the same sense of humor.  If I think something is funny so do they/  They like to tell jokes that go on too long and are full of subtle humor and as well mixed with debauchery.  They really appreciate quick wit and occasional off beat toot. My goal in the beginning was to teach them they could make themselves happy but this was not the case.  Then I tried to teach them that they had to be responsible for their own well-being. It is a slow process.  They are now studying self-control.  I hope that one day they can have a handful of chips and then stop or only one lover at a time but for the most part I hope they will read more.  They like to read but they don’t like to read alone.  Every time they come over they beg me to read to them.  They say they just like to hear me read and I have a nice voice and that my infliction reminds them of the sun and raisins. 

     They bring ale and pie and sometimes cheese.  They are nice that way.  They bring books too and ask me what I think of them.  And if it is okay for them to read them alone.  I tell them yes, it is okay. I want you to read alone. Read whatever you like but they want to please me so much.  They ask me about the books  each time and I tell them same thing. But I think they know I hate best sellers and they are scared I will tease them in front of the others about their book choice.  I just want them to read a wide variety of books and not get stuck reading just one kind. Like mystery I told them to fantasy and James Joyce and now they’ve been reading Shakespeare and remembering lines.  Sometimes they a have a hard time staying focused. I must manipulate them to do a good thing.

     How do my socks stay so white?  I’ve been thinking about getting a kitten.  I like cats.  But there is always the problem of kitty liter on the paws and then the little fur ball goes on the table and then you have cat shit on the table and I don’t know if I can commit to that. 

     The Nutty dozen was not my first name pick.  I first I coined the name, Molly’s Mojo/. Then a couple of months later I realized it was an innuendo and that was the only reason the Nutty Dozen liked it.  I saw Horace and Jennifer laughing and signing, “Mojo Mojo.”  Then I realized my grave mistake and said I’ll take Marty’s idea, “The Tea Marty” and that made the Marty blush and say it wasn’t satisfactory and the Horace and Jennifer and Edward and Moesha had their own ideas.   But then I looked each one in the eye and sternly frowned at them.  They got the picture. I wasn’t having ana-chary in my celebratory party.  They zipped up.  Then I told them they all had room for improvement and this had been a test and since it was test to see if they were all there I said they would be called Nuts and Bolt.    

     This was a very important day for the group.  It seemed to me that they all understood the responsibility of such a group and they all wanted to do their best.  They had something to live for again.  It was recess.   They needed me.  That said, I picked each out of a long list of contenders.  I wanted the best, the brightest, and best looking.   That proved to be difficult but at last, my search is not over.    But you must be concerned over my rationale. Fear not, I have the best indentions.  I am not perfect but with hope, I am improved. 

     Marty my first pluck is a loser.  That is why he is in the group.   Every group needs a loser to inspire the others. That is what losers are for.  Marty is an old man to rest of the group. he is 37.  He is not feeble yet. He is spray and healthy.  His hair is grey and he wears feathers.  He likes to play the guitar a lot.  He has named his guitar Honey Bear.  He reads poetry and rides a bike.  He teaches history, I think.  He does something. He is a zookeeper.   He brings good ale and honey.   He is a nice guy but he is a loser.   He wanted to join a band.   It never worked. 

     He sings like a lovebird or some hit because it is awesome. He is pretty, so I said, “Sports coat, would you like to join my celebratory party? Marty said “Yes.”  He is a very eager guy.  

Charity cannot get on the couch.

 

 

Charity cannot get on the couch. Her “hello” to the empty cereal box is pointless. She nor the box, can find a way to crawl.

The door of the cottage leads out to a strand that

men and women wander with plastic bags and backpacks, and towels and dogs. Their eyes roll crossed, their wobbly necks hop their heads sporadically. Creamy spit cakes the sides of their sagging pink folds that fester even their cheeks into nightmares. 

A mountain threatens the horizon. A line of large houses insult the beach. 

The birds sing. It is spring. 

 

She lies on brown carpet and kneads her stomach, dragging her fat tongue against her teeth. She bites her tongue to the point of pain and then stops.  She repeats this in delirium for what seems to her, several million years, and yet when she looks at the clock on the wall, she stumbles over time. It is only an hour, or has it been thirteen or thirty-seven. Incoherent and exhausted, her body strums the floor in a bluesy rhythm, a 12 beat jag of shuffles and slides. Her black hair is twisted in dreads and sweat, it spiders around her thin shoulders and tangles with the ratted carpet.

 

There is a robin, red breasted twitting life outside the window, on the budded cherry tree.     

 

Charity would get up and do something about the dog in the backyard, but she’s turned apathetic. The dog was probably old and wandered into her backyard in the night. She didn’t know who owned the dog or if it was lost.   The dog must have been smart, for it picked a natural place to lie, in the grass under the shade of a white pine.  Its bloated body stank. 

  

 A dozen or so yellow finches swoop about, chase each other, and fluff their feathers. The first flies of the year buzz. Tender velvets slowly open and green sprigs pop out.  Rains, and suns.  Moths on the porch. 

 

 

A large hand knocks on door.  It could be Charity’s brother, maybe her sister. The old blind man who lives three cottages down called someone to complain about the stink. Charity tries to stand and look at the dog. She can’t and only sees what looks like a black tail. Perhaps the dog is not dead. Maybe it is sleeping and the stench comes from her. Perhaps it is because she pooped herself. And the dog is just resting in the shade. The knock continues. The door comes off the hinges and is laid against the window, blocking the cherry tree. The noise of strange voices muffles the sounds of the birds.  Several people come in and say “holly shi” a lot, and jigsaw around her.  She cannot stay awake.  She falls back into mist and open water.  She has a fishing pole in her hands, her brother John is there with their sister Tammy. John is laughing with a bottle of beer, and Tammy is giggling and asking Charity questions about who’s the greatest ever.  Charity says, “John’s alright, but he’s a canned pickle” which makes the young John hoot and laugh, and “what about Tammy?”  says John. “Tammy’s just a baby fish” says Charity. Tammy and John’s laughter becomes loud, and exaggerated. The hoots and hots turn into screams, and curses, gurgles and moans leave their laughing mouths. Their violent eyes become black triangles of swishing smashing swirls of glass and metal that jug down Charity’s throat.  She runs from them and trips over a tire on the side of the cottage.

 

The sun is out and playing on a little tulip, on its pink-white petals, on its three sepals and yellow stamens. The green stem is erect for the most part, but slightly curves over an old tire that lies next to it. 

Several large hands strap Charity to a board and carry her and put her into a vehicle with flashing stars.  They scan her body with mechanical devices that beep. They take away her clothes and put a sheet on her. She is cold and her teeth chatter. Her arms are tied down, and there are tubes coming into her.  She does not know where she is and does not hear the birds. The curtains are shut and she cannot see the sky.  No light creeps through the white blinds.  It must be night.  It was morning and there was the dead dog. She cannot stand up and has to go to the bathroom. She screams and finally gives in and goes on herself.  It is warm and it stings. She chirps until she can no longer. 

Cold hands come in and clean her. She wakes but she cannot see their faces.  She hears “oh gross,” and “why do I do this.”  She is cold and whistles out for a blanket. They give her cup with a nipple attached to it.  “This will give you strength,” says a hand. It taste sweet at first but then it taste like chalk. She pushes it way with her tongue but the hand is stronger and pushes the chalk back into her mouth and she must drink or drown.

The mist comes again and the blue water glistens as Charity licks the shore.  A fat man with a hook for a hand motions for her to sit on his lap. He tells her to call him father.  She does not want to and sits on sand.  Hook man comes over her, his shadow over takes the sun and she stares up at him. He has a bucket and net and wants her to catch little sliver coins.  She takes the bucket and net and tries do to what the hook man tells her to but she steps on something sharp and runs back onto the shore. The hook man shakes at her and asks her if she is afraid.  She says, “I stepped on beer bottle,” and he pushes her back towards the water. Charity stumbles and falls in the water, and chokes. She can’t breathe. She tries to stand but is too weak. The waves break over her head. The hook man pulls her by the hair and drags her on the sand.  Strange grey seagulls gather around her and yell “noodle.”  She hides her face in her hands. The hook man says, “Fudge it, you don’t even cook like me” and walks away. She is alone on the beach with the noodling birds.

 

She is again rough housed by the hands. They bend her legs and arms, shove things in her mouth, and ears. They wipe her with rough towels.  The curtains are opened and they feed her smashed up rice mixed with the liquid chalk. A face leans into her and shines a light in her eyes. She does not blink. She looks at it, surprised and mystified. She is moved to another room where there is an old blue woman.  The blue woman sings “this pittle pight of pine I’m gonna let it rine” over and over.  The blue woman looks at Charity and says, “Pull child, so lonely with notebody.” Charity does want the blue woman to look at her anymore and she chimes for her stop.  A red woman comes in wearing blue pajamas and forces her to drink the chalk again.  Time goes by and Charity looks out the window, staring, wondering where the birds are now, that she cannot feed them the rainbow cereal.  She does not see a single bird.  There is no way to tell how long she has been kept prisoner, she is in a giant cage where evil hands do horrible acts to birds and girls.  She hears the hollow gags of others and waits her turn. The blue woman sings the same song for ten thousand years, it seems, and then is silent.  Charity is happy at first, but there is weird taste in the room and when she calls to the woman, she does not respond.  A red woman in blue pajamas closes the curtains and then notices the blue woman.  The red woman in blue pajamas snorts a little and wheels the blue woman away.  Later when the curtains are closed for a third time, and no light peaks through the corners, a purple woman is wheeled in and put in the blue woman’s place. The purple woman growls and gags on a worm for a long time unto a red woman with blue pajamas, smiles at Charity and wheels the purple gnashing woman out.

 

 

There is a box with moving pictures in the room that is always on.  Charity can hear faint sounds coming from it.  She doesn’t recognize the songs, people or things in the box.  It is annoying and she looks to the closed window instead.

 

A blond woman comes in and asks Charity questions about her brother. Charity asks where the pickle is and pretends to cast a line. The blond woman shakes her head. Then the blond woman asks her about sister, and Charity makes her hand into a fish, “swimingly.” The blond woman asks Charity about her parents but Charity doesn’t know what parents are. Charity asks about the birds and the dead dog but the blond woman does not understand her.  Charity keeps trying to talk to her but the blond woman keeps stopping her, and telling her to use words, and not sounds. Charity is confused and chirped out.

She falls back into the mist and bright clear water.  She is on a swing and there is a scab woman hanging towels on a line.  The scab woman calls to Charity to help her but Charity cannot get up fast enough. The scab woman screams for her, and Charity crawls to her, and tries to help but knocks a towel off the line.  The scab woman smacks Charity and tells her to obey her mother. Charity hisses, and asks what is a mother, but the scab woman just beats her until she falls into the sand.  The scab woman steps on her back and leaves her tweeting with sand in her mouth.  Charity tries to get up and hang the towels but she cannot reach the line.  The scab woman gets in a red car and leaves.  Charity crawls into the house and picks up a box of cereal and eats some.  Through the open window she can see the birds. She drags her body to the window and flings some out for the birds. The red breasted robin pecks the cereal and chirps.  Charity smiles and says, “you well come.”  The robin nods and some yellow finches stop by for a visit and Charity gives some to them too.  They are playful yellow ribbons twirling and Charity giggles. 

 

When the mist leaves Charity sees a cigarette woman leaning over, and patting her face with a little pink sheet.  The cigarette woman has wet sand under her eyes and Charity tries to ask her if she is hungry. Charity is hungry and wants cereal.  The cigarette woman runs from the room. Charity stares at the window. The curtains are open. The cigarette woman comes back with a box.  It is not a rainbow but it is blue and red and yellow. The cigarette woman puts some of the cereal in Charity’s mouth and Charity eats it so fast she accidentally bites the cigarette woman’s finger. She is scared and tries to hide under the sheet but the cigarette woman pulls it off her. Charity winces for the coming beating. The cigarette woman gives her the box of cereal and Charity eats it one piece at a time, careful not to mess up again.  The cigarette woman puts soft pink pants and shirt on her, she puts fuzzy red things over her feet, and stiff brown things over the fuzzy stuff.  The cigarette woman picks her up and walks down a long hall with her, outside, and into the lilac summer air. Charity sees a little bluebird on the green grass, and then two robins. A few finches flutter by.  Still gripping the box of cereal Charity  flings some to the birds and chortles to see them peck again.  The cigarette woman laughs too and kisses Charity on her cheek, and tells her “your Nana here.” Charity doesn’t know what a Nana is but likes the way the cigarette woman smells, her laugh,  the cereal, and the kiss, and so Charity hugs her, and tells her “your well come.” Cigarette Nana says, “Its just us now, Charity, John died, but you probably saw him in the backyard, you poor thing, with Tammy,  dead in the tub.”  Charity did not know what died or dead meant but she took it as a good word because cigarette Nana was hugging her and kissing her, and she’d never had so much cereal, so it must be something good she did for this to turn out.  “Poor boy, only ten, and that Tammy 8,  but you’ll be alright, as long as nana can take care of you.  And to think you been through so much, and you’re only three, oh my wonder, if there is a god, I wonder, if there is, to let you get mistreated so. The police said they’d been dead for a week, you poor thing” Charity falls asleep and when she wakes cigarette Nana gives her juice and Charity drinks it so fast she burps out of her nose.

Charity never had anything so orange and right.  When she drinks it all out, she says, “More well.” Cigarette Nana gives her more. Cigarette Nana seems to understand hand jesters, and little Charity feels like a slippery chorus cause, she knows she finally done something right, although, she isn’t sure what yet, she knows she somehow turned things inside her so she can feed the birds again.