In his dreams one night, he saw a gray lamb looking away from him. It lay on a small mound of red and yellow leaves in the center of a clearing. When he approached, it turned its head to look at him. It bent its head toward the ground and opened its mouth. Flower petals fell out of the lamb’s mouth, settling to the ground in a perfect ring. Lastly, a small vial fell out of the lamb’s mouth. The young man knelt to take the lamb’s head in his arms, sensing that it was the most appropriate thing to do. The lamb whispered to the young man in a very deep voice.
“Who are you, young man?”
“I am the young man with a hole in my abdomen,” he replied.
The lamb drew back its head to observe and consider him. “Look at me,” the lamb said. He looked, and the lamb had a wreath of long-needled pine boughs around its neck. “Take the samara from this wreath, please.” He took a pinecone and felt its roughness. The young man was bewildered. The lamb nestled its head in the young man’s lap. When the lamb breathed, it smelled exactly like raspberry blossoms, which the young man had smelled before.
He remembered the vial and glanced at it, lying in the ring of flower petals. The lamb shifted slightly. “The secret is to dry it,” the lamb said. The sky quickly darkened.
The lamb slowly rose from its bed of leaves and walked into the forest. The young man stood but he couldn’t follow. He woke up.
7/31/11
7/17/11
Melons
Before the archer became a famous marksman, he drove heavy wooden stakes into the ground for the utility of his growing melons. He would wrap their vines around the stakes in order to support their weight. Over time, the vines became thick indeed, the fibers becoming useful materials in the making of his bowstrings.
A lady entered his garden one afternoon. "You are the marksman, yes?"
He replied: "Yes. May I ask your business?"
"I was merely passing your garden and I noticed your melons, which are of particular repute, and I decided to declare myself to you." She tossed her hair testily with one hand.
"I see. Forgive me, I meant to be more kind than how I likely had seemed presently."
"Indeed, I was for a moment rather cross," she admitted.
He shuffled his feet, unsure of what he ought to indicate.
She pecked at the ground with the toe of one shoe.
They exchanged pleasant smiles as they parted ways.
The archer went indoors and worked on his spindle for some hours, sucking on hunks of chilled melon in the meantime. His distraction caused him to drip some juice onto the line he was spinning, which frayed slightly. As he was finely braiding the bowstring, he failed to notice the tiny flaw in the line. He strung his bow with that particular bowstring, tugging it to test its tensile properties. It seemed to withstand the normal amount of tension, which resulted in his inability to see the imperfection.
He placed his bow onto its hook and sat at his table, where bread and olive oil were placed prominently. He tore a chunk from the bread with his bare hands (red from the spindle work) and he poured a relatively small portion of oil into a dish. He chewed, musing, and produced pen and paper. He wrote the following poem.
If you were indeed a star
I would test by pulling on your thread
to see if you were robust enough
for my hands, for my hands so red.
My hands are red from the spindle.
My hands are red from the earth.
My hands are red from the mother's mark
which was given to me upon birth.
The light was failing, and he extinguished his candle, retiring to bed.
The following morning, he woke and walked into town, carrying his bow. It was the day of a competition, and he imagined that he would see her there, the woman from just the day before. He attempted to maintain his usual focus, but was moderately unsuccessful.
Arriving at the competition grounds, he found his nerves a bit jangled. So he asked a man sitting at a table beneath a tent for a draught of something a bit harried. Having drunk it, the archer felt quite at ease.
A horn sounded, and it was time to begin. He hoisted his bow and strode to his place, marked with a "V" for his first name.
He placed his feet a shoulderwidth apart and arranged the bow properly in his hands, pulling from the quiver that he had set on the ground. He aimed, sensing his heartbeat. Between beats, he shot a very straight arrow into the center of the target and received an expected and welcome round of applause. The apples of his cheeks reddened a bit in pride.
Another archer with a yellow hat achieved a similar level of applause tempered with surprise, for no one had thought that the marksman and his melonstrung bow would be bested by a dandy in a yellow hat.
After two or so occasions of similar description, the archer finally noticed the fault in his bowstring. He worried, as the man in the yellow hat was decidedly close to his record. He was worried, but he stilled his heart.
In a moment of brashness, the man in the yellow hat aimed too hastily and missed the target completely. The arrow stuck itself deeply into the earth, standing and quivering slightly. The man in the yellow hat cursed significantly and scoffed at the target and the crowd, who stood aghast.
The archer took aim and felt the creaking bowstring fraying within. The condition of his bowstring was deteriorating rapidly and he sought to end the match as soon as he could so that he could return home to his small house and his melons. He thought of his garden, which also contained various hydrangeas and peonies, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He relaxed his bowstring. Something inside the string snapped, but the string retained its tensity. The crowd grew abnormally silent. He breathed deeply and took aim once again. He did so without opening his eyes. He opened his eyes and saw the target, which loomed. He waited for his heart to calm, stretched his bowstring, and (upon the heartbeat) let an arrow fly. It sailed deep into the target, just to the right of the center. The crowd was excited.
The bowstring snapped, lashing his eye. Silently, the archer returned home. He slept.
Several days later, a trophy arrived at his home, engraved with a feminine hand. He placed the trophy in his garden, filling it with earth and planting a thistle in the center of its cup.
Once, he tasted the thistle's milk. It tasted of rose and honey.
A lady entered his garden one afternoon. "You are the marksman, yes?"
He replied: "Yes. May I ask your business?"
"I was merely passing your garden and I noticed your melons, which are of particular repute, and I decided to declare myself to you." She tossed her hair testily with one hand.
"I see. Forgive me, I meant to be more kind than how I likely had seemed presently."
"Indeed, I was for a moment rather cross," she admitted.
He shuffled his feet, unsure of what he ought to indicate.
She pecked at the ground with the toe of one shoe.
They exchanged pleasant smiles as they parted ways.
The archer went indoors and worked on his spindle for some hours, sucking on hunks of chilled melon in the meantime. His distraction caused him to drip some juice onto the line he was spinning, which frayed slightly. As he was finely braiding the bowstring, he failed to notice the tiny flaw in the line. He strung his bow with that particular bowstring, tugging it to test its tensile properties. It seemed to withstand the normal amount of tension, which resulted in his inability to see the imperfection.
He placed his bow onto its hook and sat at his table, where bread and olive oil were placed prominently. He tore a chunk from the bread with his bare hands (red from the spindle work) and he poured a relatively small portion of oil into a dish. He chewed, musing, and produced pen and paper. He wrote the following poem.
If you were indeed a star
I would test by pulling on your thread
to see if you were robust enough
for my hands, for my hands so red.
My hands are red from the spindle.
My hands are red from the earth.
My hands are red from the mother's mark
which was given to me upon birth.
The light was failing, and he extinguished his candle, retiring to bed.
The following morning, he woke and walked into town, carrying his bow. It was the day of a competition, and he imagined that he would see her there, the woman from just the day before. He attempted to maintain his usual focus, but was moderately unsuccessful.
Arriving at the competition grounds, he found his nerves a bit jangled. So he asked a man sitting at a table beneath a tent for a draught of something a bit harried. Having drunk it, the archer felt quite at ease.
A horn sounded, and it was time to begin. He hoisted his bow and strode to his place, marked with a "V" for his first name.
He placed his feet a shoulderwidth apart and arranged the bow properly in his hands, pulling from the quiver that he had set on the ground. He aimed, sensing his heartbeat. Between beats, he shot a very straight arrow into the center of the target and received an expected and welcome round of applause. The apples of his cheeks reddened a bit in pride.
Another archer with a yellow hat achieved a similar level of applause tempered with surprise, for no one had thought that the marksman and his melonstrung bow would be bested by a dandy in a yellow hat.
After two or so occasions of similar description, the archer finally noticed the fault in his bowstring. He worried, as the man in the yellow hat was decidedly close to his record. He was worried, but he stilled his heart.
In a moment of brashness, the man in the yellow hat aimed too hastily and missed the target completely. The arrow stuck itself deeply into the earth, standing and quivering slightly. The man in the yellow hat cursed significantly and scoffed at the target and the crowd, who stood aghast.
The archer took aim and felt the creaking bowstring fraying within. The condition of his bowstring was deteriorating rapidly and he sought to end the match as soon as he could so that he could return home to his small house and his melons. He thought of his garden, which also contained various hydrangeas and peonies, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He relaxed his bowstring. Something inside the string snapped, but the string retained its tensity. The crowd grew abnormally silent. He breathed deeply and took aim once again. He did so without opening his eyes. He opened his eyes and saw the target, which loomed. He waited for his heart to calm, stretched his bowstring, and (upon the heartbeat) let an arrow fly. It sailed deep into the target, just to the right of the center. The crowd was excited.
The bowstring snapped, lashing his eye. Silently, the archer returned home. He slept.
Several days later, a trophy arrived at his home, engraved with a feminine hand. He placed the trophy in his garden, filling it with earth and planting a thistle in the center of its cup.
Once, he tasted the thistle's milk. It tasted of rose and honey.
7/10/11
Beast
Yours is the heart.
We have never played together
in all the years that we have been
together, in the baptismal font,
or lounging on the sofa or the
chaise. Yet the beads that we
could have made
could have strung
are sprawled out like a pack
of African beasts are scattered
on the savanna, specifically, and idly at that.
Especially pertaining is the manner in which
you fight against the droves of seagulls or the ugly horseflies
by placing two cigarettes in the heart of a wildebeest and stroking your throat
roughly with one hand, tight as a gibbet's joints.
Your young and creaking arthritis. Your sleep apnea. Joys! Joys!
You chill your bones with a great deal of fruits, dealing
in zen and violence in equal measure and similar explosion.
Convulsing, as you do, as you will, if you would, out of revulsion,
repulsing, spurting maggot zebra.
You have been expelled from the inner sanctum
with zen and violence in equal measure. And,
with zen and violence in equal measure,
you fell beasts and fabricate any number of elaborate carpets.
Listen to your occidental symphonies and thump your breast,
your thumping beast heart. Pounding at that.
We have never played together
in all the years that we have been
together, in the baptismal font,
or lounging on the sofa or the
chaise. Yet the beads that we
could have made
could have strung
are sprawled out like a pack
of African beasts are scattered
on the savanna, specifically, and idly at that.
Especially pertaining is the manner in which
you fight against the droves of seagulls or the ugly horseflies
by placing two cigarettes in the heart of a wildebeest and stroking your throat
roughly with one hand, tight as a gibbet's joints.
Your young and creaking arthritis. Your sleep apnea. Joys! Joys!
You chill your bones with a great deal of fruits, dealing
in zen and violence in equal measure and similar explosion.
Convulsing, as you do, as you will, if you would, out of revulsion,
repulsing, spurting maggot zebra.
You have been expelled from the inner sanctum
with zen and violence in equal measure. And,
with zen and violence in equal measure,
you fell beasts and fabricate any number of elaborate carpets.
Listen to your occidental symphonies and thump your breast,
your thumping beast heart. Pounding at that.
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