June 13, 2012

(Last week, I spent Thursday and Friday re-formatting my files to be letter size pages instead of A5. I’m also trying out a new font, which, lame as it sounds, is a big thing for me. Sorry about not posting until today. I wasn’t home Monday and Tuesday. So you get a new piece today. The new novel is loosely based on “Masque of the Red Death.”)




     blue lights guide me into the afterlife. [how did i die, i ask and a three-eyed man giggles soundlessly, his open ribs clicking with a rin-tin-tin-tin-tin-tin-tin-crack sound that pierces the basement boiler with its intensity. i sob into my open hands and the three-eyed man whimpers, WHY DID YOU DO THESE THINGS? he slides his bloody back over a kitchen sink already hardened with red blood clots lodged in the narrow steel drain. HOW LONG DOES IT RAIN, the three-eyed man asks. HOW DID THE WATER GET SO RED? but i cannot answer him. i just stare at him and until my stomach burns with pickling solution. i am pickled. i am sore with gristle. come near me. get near me. i will bite your head off and leave the remnants for the skeleton. he likes the way pores move around the head. he likes to touch old marrow tucked into the eye sockets. do you frame? do you blame? do you suffer and do you wonder why the ground wants to eat a piece of your wrist? i know what bone you have. i know what skin you cut up with your wrists clicking in and out of alignment. you have a monster in your ribs. it moves around. it slides back and forth. it slaps and slops and breaks. it ruptures and squeals and bites. that’s the skin. that’s the way the bones grow. i have a bone spur and it rises up, a red bone blister snagged on the thorn body and soldered to the stomach bone. every stomach has a bone and some of the bones are more like spines and others are slaughtered wide and thick while a hungry man with no face licks the wooden splint and struggles for a beast. i have a beast for you. and it is the greatest beast in the world, one stuck in the gutter bowl and stewed in the steam pipes. how does your yellow beef compare to the metal rot? we are rusted down the brain stem. so how do you wheeze? how do you whimper? you have no roots left. you have no tortured skeletons left. and when you sit in the window and let the sun roast your spine across the sides, until the vertebrae blacken to a charcoal consistency. and that is the most delicious meat, even though it never aches with the liquid red. red, red, red. we crave it but never receive it. amen to your bones. amen to your liver. amen to your intestines. until the red puddles up in the chest. until the red skewers the throat. until the red solidifies on the gelatin board and freezes through the inside. poor bones. poor skeletons. all that poor skin, wrapped around the wrist, burned near the bones, and how do i praise you? how do i praise the red? how do i roast the red and cull the red and shadow the red until the red bleeds hard, until the red slaps the mandibles? i am so sad all the time. what do i do with the red? how do i play with the red? and where did the skeleton go, when he opened my chest and stole the red in his little digits? i ate him up. and he tasted like something soaked in yellow.

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