Friday, May 12, 2017

Regurgitate the Stars and the Soot


Ana Božičević

I’m alone until I’m asleep, and there you are: naked,
you take my hand: Shhhh! We
tiptoe through a
black-blue meadow. To the pond behind the farmhouse. (The farmer
sleeps in the blind window.) No cicadas even,
maybe just maybe Venus — & this is before Wednesday, everything’s
                 alright, we
tiptoe ‘round the house as around a painful subject — & we’re at the pond!
And now it’s time. To use vague holy-man speech, like: I am
another face in your hand, the face of your eye — wing-surrogates, the word
it’s time for afternoon, them white-blank architectures.
No, veil. Nothing’s glistening. Christmas, Christmas. It’s time
for you to forgive me: I was forced to eat valises
that wouldn’t close by themselves —
that was just a dream, good morning:
regurgitate the stars and the soot


  1. There are, you know, no antidotes or salves to cure what ills torment the other humans who make our days difficult. They do it 'cause it's their nature -- the bully who draws strength from prompting fear; the sulk of the passive-aggressive; the smirk of the Superior One. It's worse when you're one of their direct reports.

    I'd love to have a Hollywood moment at The Place Of Witless Labor™, a real James Stewart, righteous-indignation speech delivered to my own Bookeeper, and a Motherfucker or two, and Fine Metaphors Abound ©. But: For some others, I am probably their Bookeeper or Motherfucker, too; the difference is that I labor not to be. I'm trusting the same's true for you. And, you got a "Good Sport" award from the Medic! You're good for hiking!

    And meanwhile, above, the Gods are laughing, fit to bust.

  2. I immediately checked that somewhere else. I'm a schmuck. Maybe you could dance about the asterisk.

    1. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with that someplace else.

      Some of the Lit Blog overlords did a "personal canon" tweet-thingee last week. I responded to one something to the effect of, "Sillyass Deserted Island Five Games? Who the fuck does Sillyass Deserted Island Five Games and has been for fourteen years on blog?" I haven't seen tweets from most of them since, and one I had a friendly emailing back and forth now and then on novelists we liked hasn't responded to an email I sent since the tweet-thingee to an inquiry I made not even thinking about the tweet-thingy.

      Maybe it's all circumstance and happenstance and not fuck me from them, but most every fucking thing seems like kindergarten in this digital sandbox, sometimes. By me too often too. There was no need for me to tease even if it was 98% meant in good humor.

    2. I'm all too aware of far-reaching myopic projections as regards what others must think of me, and yet, just 'cause one's paranoid dudn't mean they aren't all unable to stave off the bitterness that arises whenever the offending avatar should rear its hideous head.

      A couple of things decisive, I think, which have extended this extant unease, are the perennial open letter format that makes each personal remark or observation a public performance, no matter how restricted its intended application. Then, there's a carryover from realspace wherein one's mind might expect another's to understand what the former is on about, through which, even were they to get a long-established inside joke or make allowances for playful needling at whomever's expense, the uncertainty principle of predetermined tone of the aforementioned open letter format renders plausible interpretations thereof inversely proportional to... [what the fuck am I on about?!]. Sigh. Never mind.

  3. Sehr richtig. Also, humor in the face of a bewildering amount of choice and stimulus (and our resulting personal paranoia) helps. I carry the functional equivalent of a cream pie for use when that pesky damn avatar pops up.