When a burlesque performer loses her anima, it is proper to punt around
the world trying to get it for her. Each sense becomes indulged with minute
repressions that run like carriers of disaster. Each assassin hides within.
No repose. Some people bust with violence because they are sensitive to
rumors and take big breaths to fan themselves against persecution. But
silence endures. Eventually, being busted leads youth to nothingcommunicated
by desperation to mix calcium with sugar at every portal.
If you see beautiful girls in windows with hair the color of turpentine
and faces as white as an imagined Karloff, their eyes closed and hands
crossed over their breasts, without moving the corners of their lipswell,
then, this is a vocation from which the Venuss of the world will
In this house, no one is anyone. Take me to them! Im dead too. Dead?
Well then, how much for the peek in the window? Wait and Ill bring
you to the cashier. Before another world was said, the girls disappeared
and the window was slammed shut. O beautiful girls with turpentine heads,
I will call you "dear ones", have compassion on a guy descended
from assassins. But before he could finish his words without being led
away by the collar, two little voices said menacingly: "This is the
Time to Remove Your Shoes."
Whales are afraid of death when they look it squarely in the eye. They
press on with tremendous force without trembling, as if they had legs
and voices. Therefore? Demanded the Assassins. You opened your mouth,
yes or no? Ah
not talking? Leave it be. This time we will have YOU
running after US.
Some fortunes are made of hard wood although the motives seem lame. Spendthrifts
have a million schemes for soul massage and keeping face. I understand,
we need Monte Carlo. Monte Carlo! Repeat the others.
Debts paid, theres noticed a lump in the throat. You can see theres
been no seduction on the grass. Instead, weve been waiting for a
faceless gamine for three hours, with wide set eyes, a closed mouth, and
a gambling record beyond bad.
Goodbye then, until tomorrow. When tomorrow rolls around, who will take
out the garbage we find so beautiful?
Intending to levitate impetus, sabbaticals are poorly enforced. Caged
turkeys with acute spasms, scorched nests, and stringently simple goiters,
expire at tableside.
Little by little, each eye apprehends that sebaceous sentiment convinces
only the dead. Pure & Simple at that moment like rebel captors that
were once impervious and are now screened for their help. Since when was
waiting and waiting forever ever open for comparison?
Well then, thats where the Mentors come in and mentor the poor.
Being somewhat moribund, they do not have a caveat to give to each other.
Closing their eyes and opening their mouths, they feel a stirring in their
loins, and that is how they mentor.
Kim Rosenfield reads at SPT with Yedda Morrison on September 26, 2003