(no subject)
Writing myself to sleeeeeep.
a man with long black fingernails sits outside waiting for daylight. he smokes and smiles, alone, because it is easier to be alone. no binaries. just the fact of the one, a single living thing held up to the whiteness of burning sky, a mystery doll shelved away on a sizzling mesa. he is a man today because he woke up feeling like being a man. already he is not sure what he wants to be tomorrow. it’s a good feeling. tomorrow doesn’t exist yet, nor does his tomorrow self. then someday tomorrow will not come and he will be an unfinished thought, incorporeal. he exhales. smells chlorophyll and stomach acid. today, he decides, would be a good day to find a friend.
once the sun is up, he catches a rattlesnake, wraps it in a little girdle made from hare skin and hangs it from a low sturdy branch on a dead tree. leaves it strung there, sidewinding on the prevailing winds, sort of staring at him. it hangs like a loop of intestines. sways gently, though not for lack of attempting violence. for a friend, it doesn’t look very friendly.
hey witchman, the snake says.
witchman, it says, you pinfoot walker, penetrating the earth. earth fucker. i’ll teach you to rattle. your teeth out of your skull. your skull down your ribs. your ribs around your feet. walk it off, what i’m gonna do to you. hiss.
the man with long black fingernails puts his fifth cigarette since dawn into the sunny pinch of his mouth and strokes the rattlesnake’s head. which only pisses it off. oh well.
hey witchman, it says. you looking for aliens?
no, says the man.
that’s too bad, the snake says. this isn’t the only habitable planet in the universe. ask the mescal, okay, it’ll tell you.
maybe i should go looking sometime, says the man. with the mescal. for aliens.
maybe you should, the snake says. but really you won’t have to look too hard if you’re hoping to find something cool. i mean, look! you already found the planet where i’m going to bite you until your brain hemorrhages.
you, the man says; you’re some kind of a prophet, i guess.
yeah, the snake says. also the sun is going to swallow the earth before it burns out. they’re going to die together. it’s romantic.
it’s nature, the man says.
aw, the snake says. don’t say that, you ruined it. blame nature. how come people gotta be that way all the time?
the man says: do you know what nature is?
no, the snake says, but since you’re all such bitches to it, i think it must be great. and actually i'm trying to remember but i don't think nature ever put me in mid-air. i want down from here.
okay, the man says.
he tosses down the nub of his cigarette and loosens a few ties until the snake can slide free. it lands scales to ground with a sound like two dark clouds meeting overhead to whisper furtively about rain.
oh hey witchman, the snake says. that was decent, thank you. maybe you’re not so bad after all.
quick as lightning, it bites him in the leg. he doesn’t flinch. does wish he hadn’t thrown the end of his last cigarette away.
hiss, the snake says. i’ll see you in the the centre of the sun.
it spills off through the dry grass, following furrows baked into the golden earth months before. the man waves at it and his black fingernails leave long smears in his peripheral vision. semi-liquid now, he sits. the hare skin girdle floats on a breeze. the sun growls menacingly in the distance. it’s pretty hot. tomorrow, the man decides, would be a good day to find some water.
a man with long black fingernails sits outside waiting for daylight. he smokes and smiles, alone, because it is easier to be alone. no binaries. just the fact of the one, a single living thing held up to the whiteness of burning sky, a mystery doll shelved away on a sizzling mesa. he is a man today because he woke up feeling like being a man. already he is not sure what he wants to be tomorrow. it’s a good feeling. tomorrow doesn’t exist yet, nor does his tomorrow self. then someday tomorrow will not come and he will be an unfinished thought, incorporeal. he exhales. smells chlorophyll and stomach acid. today, he decides, would be a good day to find a friend.
once the sun is up, he catches a rattlesnake, wraps it in a little girdle made from hare skin and hangs it from a low sturdy branch on a dead tree. leaves it strung there, sidewinding on the prevailing winds, sort of staring at him. it hangs like a loop of intestines. sways gently, though not for lack of attempting violence. for a friend, it doesn’t look very friendly.
hey witchman, the snake says.
witchman, it says, you pinfoot walker, penetrating the earth. earth fucker. i’ll teach you to rattle. your teeth out of your skull. your skull down your ribs. your ribs around your feet. walk it off, what i’m gonna do to you. hiss.
the man with long black fingernails puts his fifth cigarette since dawn into the sunny pinch of his mouth and strokes the rattlesnake’s head. which only pisses it off. oh well.
hey witchman, it says. you looking for aliens?
no, says the man.
that’s too bad, the snake says. this isn’t the only habitable planet in the universe. ask the mescal, okay, it’ll tell you.
maybe i should go looking sometime, says the man. with the mescal. for aliens.
maybe you should, the snake says. but really you won’t have to look too hard if you’re hoping to find something cool. i mean, look! you already found the planet where i’m going to bite you until your brain hemorrhages.
you, the man says; you’re some kind of a prophet, i guess.
yeah, the snake says. also the sun is going to swallow the earth before it burns out. they’re going to die together. it’s romantic.
it’s nature, the man says.
aw, the snake says. don’t say that, you ruined it. blame nature. how come people gotta be that way all the time?
the man says: do you know what nature is?
no, the snake says, but since you’re all such bitches to it, i think it must be great. and actually i'm trying to remember but i don't think nature ever put me in mid-air. i want down from here.
okay, the man says.
he tosses down the nub of his cigarette and loosens a few ties until the snake can slide free. it lands scales to ground with a sound like two dark clouds meeting overhead to whisper furtively about rain.
oh hey witchman, the snake says. that was decent, thank you. maybe you’re not so bad after all.
quick as lightning, it bites him in the leg. he doesn’t flinch. does wish he hadn’t thrown the end of his last cigarette away.
hiss, the snake says. i’ll see you in the the centre of the sun.
it spills off through the dry grass, following furrows baked into the golden earth months before. the man waves at it and his black fingernails leave long smears in his peripheral vision. semi-liquid now, he sits. the hare skin girdle floats on a breeze. the sun growls menacingly in the distance. it’s pretty hot. tomorrow, the man decides, would be a good day to find some water.