“You think grave digging is something to be embarrassed about? Everybody needs a grave digger, son.”
“I believe you father, but in these times of pestilence I feel overburdened. While the other kids play kick the skull at the green, here I am burying the dead. It’s quite dull and difficult work in these pits.”
“Listen, son. I buried Yorick yesterday, and that distracted pain in the ass prince was here waxing alexandrine and indecisive. He is difficult, but son we’re among kings and princess, it’s not all lower class rot and rigor we deal with.”
The fissile rocks burst against the grain. Clouds swathed the moon in a green cast. The grave digger’s son decides to go into tax accountancy, another steady, but cleaner, job.
Not alone. I’ll see you in the morning.
I’m hearing this for the first time.
Tell me something you heard when you were injured like an animal missing a limb.
Does it need to be a seven part story?
No but if it’s made of sinew and crag I’d enjoy it more.
A rabid coyote has been here at night while we sleep.
Listen, your father was not a starfish. Your sister was not a line of enjambed poetry.
If we don’t get to choose when we are transfigured,
Are we allowed to choose when we are transmogrified?
We only get to choose if we go into tax accountancy or grave digging.
They’re both very steady jobs.
“I write for myself and strangers.”
― Gertrude Stein