#9 (488 words)

March 15, 2000
One sky
One sky like one word
Gives
I want your eyes

How I long to share your tongue
Sweet, sweet
Guide me Guardian Jack
Live inside of me
-K.B.
 

just breathe. slow, easy. your nose, not your mouth. slow, slow. in… out…
in…
out…

One eye is swollen shut. The other stares out. She can’t discern anything with one working eye. Each breath brings pain and she can feel the nakedness of her body. Something thick and sick is stuffed into her mouth. Her hand tries to go to this object (the object is foreign) and finds itself bound with the other behind her. Tears begin to slide out of her good eye and collect in a pool on the bridge of her nose. She strains that eye to see more but it is dark. Dark all around.

She thrashes, growls then drifts.
My thumb is up. I’ve been walking for miles and now it’s raining. My thumb is up. I just need a ride into the next town. I‘ll get a room. Clean up, write, sleep.
There is a shape darker than everything else, a monster. It speaks like a man. “You awake? I‘ve been waitin for ya.”
She shuts her eye. “Uh-uh-uh-” the shape says. “Too late, sugar.” Her bladder drains warm and stinging over her thighs. The shape grows, and she can make out a moustache, thin like scribbles over a hole. She is overwhelmed by the odor of sweetrot. She knows what’s coming in her pussy. It’s burning there. Her eye tightens. It burns.

Oh thank, God. He looks okay. Hicky but harmless.

“Where you headin?”

“To Creekville. Thank you so much.”

“Dint anybody ever tell ya hitchhiking is dangerous, sugar.”

“Well, I’m doing this whole ‘On The Road’ type of thing.” He’s probably never even heard of Kerouac. “You know- traveling, wandering, and writing down poems and stories about my experiences.”

“Sounds kinda like a waste.”

Pssh. “Well, maybe to some. Not me. I’ve met lots of interesting people.”

“Reckon I’ll be the most interesting.”

And I know…

She feels the heat near her skin- the back of her thigh. She grunts, grunts, struggles. The monster bites down. The monster pushes the heat into her flesh. She screams into the gag, her body goes rigid.

“Ima letcha go. You gonna get a good little pome outta this, sugar. But if ya don’t quit yer hollerin I’ll break all those fingers uh yours.”

Air. Air. Dampness. The stench of burnt flesh, urine, shit. Skin pulling taut around burns. Shivering. Jumping. Looking all around.

Something always behind. 
 
Someone help me.

 

April 27 2000
Because I loved your words and followed
Abraham is dead
So is his god
And so are you
Instead the devil lives
He drives a dusty red pickup
Smokes women like “sugar”
And now I’m dead too
-K. B.

 

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~ by c on May 5, 2008.

4 Responses to “#9 (488 words)”

  1. i don’t know where to begin.

    KB’s before and after poems are terrifyingly effective.

    her naivete together with his unspoken but implied intent– terrifyingly effective.

    your visceral descriptions. how you write raw wounds, those both physical and otherwise.

    there is simply no one like you.

    Thank you.
    i was concerned about overdoing.
    However i am comforted by your words
    and Jack’s ‘patootie stick’.

  2. frightening, violent, stunning.
    sarah

    Thank you, Sarah.
    Violence of the physical sort is not something i write very much.

  3. Wow. Damn.

    Jane referred me. I’m glad I came over and will be reading more.

    Julia

  4. There are things that live in this world because they are able to thrive absent of light or able to feast on waste. The shock of their very existence challenges our concepts of what we deserve to receive and what we deserve to take. Violence is one of those things.

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