the flat head woman…

Something Chthonic 

I’m not feeling good about all that kyoodling outside. I think there are feral dogs and hyenas circling the house. Closing the circle ever tighter until they get in…

I’m cooking up something about the male gaze, about the dynamics of sexism, and the dynamics of power and being female in a world that hasn’t changed fast or far enough…

The first time lightning struck me you had just walked away after telling me about Dali’s paranoiac-critical theory. My head was swimming. No, my brain was a rain of caroming ball bearings. I fell right there in the red Georgia clay. I felt like a distended eyeball just poked out in some 1970’s Kung Fu film. You had me hooked…

I wrote about the flat head woman. My guide from Istanbul to Kathmandu. The sun, a pink-red ulcer, tacked down the cobalt sky…

Then a sojourn to Greece — a slow ferry to Poros…

Aqui estamos, I say. 

The flat head woman says, is it true what they say about Latin men? 

To which I say, never believe what they say. They always speak in tongue twisters and riddles. Nothing makes sense, much less what we’re doing. Abandon all hope of ever singing in the proper register. Too many things are written that are lies, and too many lies are told that are truths. Abandon me like I will abandon you. Do it first.

So we show up at the appointed hour. No one there. Just a cold wind blowing a garbage can lid down the street. A calico cat sniffing at a small pile of Acropolis detritus. No one. We’re alone. 

Don’t go a woolgathering, she says. 

Indulgence in idle daydreaming, say I.

(There’s actually much more, but it doesn’t appear here because we’re standing outside of the infamous rotunda of plenty and the coroner is busy “inquesting”) 

An unseen Greek chorus sings: “Something Chthonic” — don’t fazzle our muckwumpus dazzle the accretion of deletions in the sky… the wormholes in the ploversticks and pattiwhacks all die…

Upon closer inspection my uncle ingested the harvest moon and darkened the sky.  He ran through the living room with a glass full of bloody moon and a minute later the house was thrown into darkness… Greeks be damned!

The feral dogs and hyenas are now inside.

“God is circling like a vulture…”

— Eduardo C. Corral / “Testaments Scratched into a Water Station Barrel”

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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