They Come & They Go; Strato

by dschapman

D. Sinisterra is plucking daisy petals from their florets; thinking of cloudly suicide and fresh-cooked porridge; a hedgehog curled up in his lap, a cowlick in his profile, a krugerrand in his waistcoat; ye cannae see his eyes for those striking black lenses. He has an Ionesco play under his hat. He’s never read Ionesco. Without Ionesco, what else? When he addresses you, he’ll look you in the eyes. Ye cannae look away. He’s got some fresh fruit in a bushel by his side. Now and then he carves out a peach with his penknife and treats the hedgehog. The clouds pass by. He paints them gold and cream. As cumulonimbi, they resemble Carl Orff or Thomas Dilward; Sinisterra leaves those clouds alone. Cumulonimbi are better left unpainted. I ain’t got nothing to say to you, pretty girl.

A bushel of apples and a barrel of fish. He’s been laying on the billiard table for days. He’s drunk more cherry chardonnay than his godfather. Somewhere, under his lapel pin, or in the quartz of his watch, or spinning in his head around the pillars and totem poles and Oedipal imagery; somewhere, something as loud as a timpani and a pair of xylophones, or something as ornate as the bread on sunday morning; the daily bread, which we eat in silent sacrament; the ordinary days of yore. His fly is unzipped, and his hair unwashed. He is almost charming, but his appeal is quickly exhausting itself. He only has one record to play, and the needle has worn away the groove. He keeps the record playing, though, and sways a finger to the beat, the beat which can no longer be said to be heard, which his foot taps against air to, which he smiles to and wishes he had a dirt floor to dance on. It’s time to wallpaper the walls, and harvest the hay to feed the horses. He’s lain in furrow long enough. The air is blowing up from Spain and bringing him back to himself again. He wires his daughter money in Toulouse; or he would, if he had a daughter. He jumps at the shadows of little girls who run up behind him, tugging on his coattails, asking him about the blueness of the sky, kicking stones into his heels…

Wire me some money.


Advertisements