Friday, April 03, 2009

The Idea

If was effortless and moving in an ugly
direction. The priest wasn't satisfied with 
the ribcage. The parents weren't satisfied
with the priest. The mother was weeping
and counting. The father was no father
at all, instead, a lonely crumpled sheet
of paper. He began beating his fold-y wings
and shushing the wind. O, the wind. Always
we end in this situation with the wind
eating the Jello from our plates. My dead 
sister, who never made sense till she 
was gone, she no longer was gone and 
was suddenly here and explaining some
reasonably complicated shit. I was just 
gawking and fussing over the back
half of my brain. Back there, barking, barking,
barking, barking. In the front office,
good times I shouldn't talk about.