June 27, 2012

(First, a reminder. Writing will now be posted on Wednesday, instead of Monday and Thursday. It was getting difficult to keep up with the posts, considering that normally, I start projects on Monday/Tuesday and end them Thursday/Friday. Moving on… I spent the beginning of the week taking care of wedding crafts instead of writing. I didn’t have a novel in mind that I wanted to work on so I decided to take a little break. I didn’t write anything until last night. My wrists and brain thanked me. Now it’s back to work. See you next Wednesday.)

.

.

.

     SANTA MUERTE, glued to her glass house, bites off her finger to fit through an iron lock. [where is my key, glass tile? where is the king of fidelity and all his massive legions of broken bones? i told the owl gods to command the bathtub to overflow with saliva and brass trinkets but their beaks refused to listen. and now, i prowl the dirt clots with my hands pressed to my spine and think about the swollen places. i am swollen all the time, she cries.] SANTA MUERTE shoves her broken finger into her mouth and sucks honey from the severed tip. amber flows out of her lips and dribbles down her throat muscles, golden elixir rippling and settling into the small folds in her skin. [have we been gone for very long, she asks the small glass figures seated on her feet. have we been waiting for the steak to arrive? i thought SAVIOR BEEMAN would have returned with his ax and hammer but he has gotten lost behind the chopping block. poor man. red wax obscures his vision and sometimes, he forgets to clean the blindness from his eyes.] she twists her bleeding hand in a circle, working the finger bone deep into the lock. the small metal mechanism inside clicks and the lock slides to the side. doors open. thousands of doors, each one complete with a scaly orange tongue stinking of mold. SANTA MUERTE walks slowly, her arms dragging over the doorways, skin tearing off her limbs. a slight breeze rustles the skin like flags. the glass figures rush after her, shards splintering off the main bodies as they run and hit the floor. [the woman walks, the glass figures cry. the SANTA MUERTE goddess walks. we are indebted to her shadow. we are holy because of her liver. how do we work her skin in a circle? how do we ask her to take pity on our illuminated surface? we don’t have enough facets to interest her. we are just dull mirrors with no reflection. but look through us, great goddess of the bee variety. look through us and see all the velvet creatures we have to offer.] the glass figures rap against her ankles, shattering as her bones break up the glass surfaces. the glass figures fade away, tinkling to the floor, glittering as SANTA MUERTE knocks against a hollow wall and screams inside her kidneys. [there was skin here, SANTA MUERTE says. there was skin behind the wall, locked in the plaster, perhaps treated like solid bone. i can smell the skin. and i can taste it when i roll my tongue in a circle. come here, skin fragments. come here, skin membrane. i am all the skin in the world, made from mounds and consolidated into a simple steak structure. come here and i will give you pure yellow fat to play with. you can make your home in the buttery sinew. you can twirl and shrivel and glisten, little beasts of the muscular variety. come here, my children. come out of the wall.] SANTA MUERTE bites a doorway edge and wrenches metal off the wall. her jaws blister as the metal cuts through her tongue. [are you a horrible little girl, a monster asks, leering at her. are you really a goddess? you don’t seem like a goddess. you seem more like a chair. can i sit on you? can i break your legs off? can i snap your back and push my spine into the space? hmmm?] SANTA MUERTE sinks to the floor. she rests her cheek against a thick slab of porcelain and groans softly. [but the bee beast shouldn’t have been seen. and the monster should have stayed in the holy circle, protected from the cocaine residue and the heroin rain while the uncovered skulls danced in the dull moonlight. but i think the owl gods forget how to snap their mouths shut. they looked for mosquito demons, for little blisters in the snow, for a radiator thing with clanging pipes, and the constant fist, turned inside out, and left to rust in the train’s pipe-stack. but i couldn’t see through the tiles. and the ground ignited, a yellow plume of flame and gas, most of it noxious, the rest dried into a thick film coating windowpanes before fingernails.] SANTA MUERTE’s tongue pulls free of her mouth and slaps the ground wetly. the tip prods spaces between the grout-surrounded tiles. SANTA MUERTE flips onto her back while keeping her tongue on the ground. [shall we say our prayers tonight, she asks. shall we tilt our faces to the sky and scream our religious convictions? there was an egg and there was a seed and they rolled into a cliff and shattered just enough for roots to pull out of the shells. but there were no resulting bodies. there was only a cliff and a broken egg and a shattered seed. and that is the religion. in the beginning, three things existed and two were destroyed. let us be better than the seed. let us be stronger than the egg. let us climb into the cliff and wait for the cavern to close in upon us, rocks sealing our nostrils from the outside, a terrestrial claustrophobia closing in on our wrists. we are worthy of this pressure, if only we can tilt our heads away from the resulting mess.] her tongue rolls back into her mouth and the jaws snap shut with a venus flytrap’s finality. [nothing may resume the burial song, SANTA MUERTE says and props her severed finger end into her mouth.] she works her tongue into the bone, drilling the muscle through the calcium until meat reaches wrist innards and pries the artery colonies apart. [does anyone remember what the BEEMAN was waiting for, SANTA MUERTE asks.] she pinches her nostrils and peers through the glass walls, everything beyond overcome by an emerald green sheen. [shouldn’t he have taken the chopping block to my knee, she asks and plucks an eyelash from her lid.]

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 37 other followers

%d bloggers like this: