Jul 29, 2007

That New Thirsty Wolves Record



I filled my entire glass with scotch, no rocks, and drank it in one breath. Other things happened. I slept. This weekend was a burgled cat-- staying calm, staring out a van window until it is time to plot the escape. I imagined thirsty wolves lapping at a woman's ankles. She was covered in water in my reverie, and she never slept unless someone told her she could.

The bathroom is wrecked. The kitchen floor is in shambles. It cries out for a mop. I'm marinating my hands for consumption. Ice cold drinks float about me like kites in parks after days of rainstorms.

My mother, once, while she was drinking a glass of terrible wine, looked at me at smiled. It was the most beautiful thing. She berated me later that night and was right to do it.

Right, my hands. They are clasped together and the tips are tender from me biting my nails. The palms are rubbing against one another. The world's indigent masses could gather round my hands for heat right now like a snake sunning on a rock. They could just lay there and be warm before they hunted food and I wouldn't mind, except that I have plans for these hands.

Hats. No one wears hats in this house, and that's OK, I think.

Earlier I was out in bars, gallivanting and looking for loose morals. I was a lion trying to paw at still, standing water. My marinated hands are ready. I stick them in the oven. 400 degrees. They fill the house with the smell of heat and the anticipation of forthcoming meats. When I eat them, all of the novels on the shelves open their secret pages and spill teeth on the ground around us.

We will never need more teeth. They are in plastic boxes lining our cabinets, forever.

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