Short essays from the life of the poet, Gregg G. Brown [Gregg Glory].
Thirty-three years confine me to life And all the indignity of my firmest shapes Flatter dizzily past, confused in the turning stream, Vanishing in the nowhere-at-onceness of the sea. Thirty-three years, and all my burning images Flamed youth had tossed to the heavens' crescent Gather to a coal, my refining mind a diamond Folded to dark in the dying light of itself. All that flared and was, and was loved, Dissolves to the hopeless remotness of its source, Indecipherable starts thrown by a candle's gutter. Time shifts, springs, makes my head a hearse; Nothing heard in the house but my scratching hand Etching and etching wry heart's one word: become. A militant beaver shuttles sticks to its cove, Sound of my dark page scribbled to a curse. Before me now floats the memory of a face Haunted years nor haunted hearts removed; A face that once held all the cosmos in a laugh And fabled each disaster back to wonder Looks up all tears from the breakfast plate.... So sex-dead her toiling body cannot come Through the abstract pinhole in St. Peter's hand--- Never arise and arrive, unstained to paradise. A doomed poet who sang apocalypse, and saved All his lovliest ear for the end of the world Lives on in a water-logged suburban home, Raising a child in stitches, he is so accident prone. Where now can I go where edge still meets on edge, Where all is not mere process, flux, uncertainty? Have those high divine shapes my boyhood knew Kept tryst with their anger and their joy? That woman who grew clairvoyant with a brush Hurls pellmell through the anguishing thoroughfare, And shouts all the mounted glory of her soul To the cold stomp of the crowd's subtracted face. What hurt first scarred the eagerness of her ways? What had grown determinate in that glance That once had thrown the whole sodden world away For a fitter place that lodged behind her eye? Around me the evidence of a ten years' trouble; Monstrous toil, monstrous images half-complete, Christened in heart's-blood because baptized there, Trouble to build one life in the world's despite. When had the first note stitched my ear with feel? Redeemed or unredeemed by nightmare Time, Vision once swayed tremendous in the room: Whatever a burning cloud unfurled, song made real.
Quote Wasted and wounded, 'taint what the moon did. ---Tom Waits
Mr Zellers jalopy firetruck backfires down our street. George Fessler's in his garden, making due with daisies. Father Ruffles comes at you with a rake if you're not careful, and the Arnellas' barking geese chase everyone around. And Fran says Jimmy Cotton got half way past her knees. Come in and walk around for a while, and then come look for me. I'll be by the eucalyptis that's minus half its skin. Stepping on a poison puff mushroom out in my own backyard, barefoot without a t shirt staring at my scars. I'm shaken and I'm broken. I'm innocent and free.
I have no idea what I'm doing here. Will you still shake hands with me?
Grab a box of Marlboros, there's matches on the dash. We're headed all the way now if you don't mind paying for the gas. Our bargain's sealed in the inhale glow and you'll go right after me. So let's lay down in a cornfield, we've got all afternoon. We'll rehearse our trails like rewinding string or solutions lacking clues.
Bobby Ferris almost killed me cause of that snowman; we fought all morning long. Dad has willow switches in his eyes, so I run till I get splinters from the wall. Phillip Giuliani stole a magnum from his Dad; went fishing in the resevoir all high on pot and shot himself a bass. The sky's full of wormholes, and I'm feeling kind of lonely. So won't you come along with me?
We'll fly my old Batman kite and forget to tie the string. I'll show you how to tell the truth if you tell me when I lie. I'll straighten your spina bifeda with this magnet lying here. We'll massacre the cowboys and lie exhausted on the lawn. We'll sit out of the wind behind the fallen picnic table drinking rye. Now don't say a word. Gilbert's selling cocaine and beats me up all night. I'll pull that nail from the flat tire and drawl our epic twice.
I'll show you how to climb up on the pony shed, stargaze shutting our clean eyes. Ever get that feeling everybody's left you to go on back home? We'll dodge the traffic reciting songs in our own quavering key. We'll lay out in the nighttime, trade our kisses and lies. There's a fire in the east; the oil derrick's burning down again. Asbury Park has trashed its Palace and we pop out the last neon with a hub. We scrape along tired asphalt; hurried autumn sounds like winter, then winter's gone again.
The horizon is a hunchback. Sunset's got a bloody nose. We'll trail the moon in the graveyard, shiver when the screech owl shatters our nerves and hope morning never comes. We'll sneak kisses in the crypt. We'll steal a bunch of chyrsanthemums from blind Mary Jo at the truckstop. I'll spill em all on your face. Watch out for that empty grave. Bend your knees real deep and jump. Now come along with me.
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Blue jumped.
"Aw---awww," he moaned, "dere go da heart."
His voice was both sad and pleased. Everybody looked to see the big red chunk from the very center of the melon, free of rind and sparse of seed, which had rolled a little distance from Blue's feet. He stooped to picked it up. Blood red, its planes dull and blunted with sweetness, its edges rigid with juice. Too obvious, almost obscene, in the joy it promised.
Blue's eye caught Cholly's. He motioned to him.
"Come on, boy. Le's you and me eat the heart."
---Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye
There was a plain green field out back of our house. Spring portioned it with wildfowers, weeds, dandelions, and the turned ankle-deep earth of my Dad's only heartfelt project, his garden.
Out back past this field rose a grove, or fortress, of brambles. Our very own berry patch. Among that Old Testament wreck of thorns and indian arrowheads that cut our bare feet, we walked on, my two brave brothers and I, razor-reckless, as if we were the New Testament saints of our sopping yard. Every summer we'd haul in a small cartload of raspberries, blackberries, and special yellow-wine raspberries to sell off to Delicious Orchards at a premium, or else to neighbors cut-rate in the curving shade of the cul-de-sac at the top of the hill.
Running through the uneven glow of the garden, at its far end we each snatched up without slowing a musty mint picking box from an infinite, moldy rack of berry containers, and rushed at once toward the torrent of thorns, summery-warm with the white noise of a million bees.
"Watch your thumbs and knuckles berrying, boys."
I held my cartelidge-limber hand before my face, watching it, and flashed at the man-high ruin of whipping prickers located farther on in our meadow. A surprised bird spurt its feathery jangle of silver notes. I wore the sun like a hot hat. I only slowed when I began to sense a cool enormity of dew just beyond me, behind the hand still held to my face. That coolness fell to my face with the instantness of the Cool Whip whippets we'd try a few years later, macing me with its mists.
The huge, intricate greenness of the bushes stood over me in polite indifference. I let out an awed breath. Then I ducked and entered the deftly fletched maze via the dog trail Dukey had tunnelled out all summer long, going after groundhogs.
After a few snagging steps, I stopped and unhunched in a shaggy temple of shadows, roofed by enormous daylight. I glanced up a second. The sky was a fine, snoozy blue, and reminded me of the house where I could see it through my own window.
I let my gaze graze down. And there, just in front of me, just where I could sneak my hand up, snaked along my little body, were hundreds of blood-blots, shot eyeballs, the upsidedown repeated beehive architectural structure of the raspberry berries my trim fingers would manage to pick, or mangle to a tasty squish against the busy minnow of my tongue.
Random bees appeared in riffs of commas and weird periods, contentedly creating a chaotic punctuation in the air.
I began my berry-picking in earnest.
Innertube-tender fingers and raspy vines intertwined. I tried to take each berry with a delicate lift and not a hurried libidinal pull; they smashed so easy! Many came into my hand and rolled there lightly, only to be appropriately plopped in the minty box with a plump drumtap, and the box dropped when I tripped on my way out of the repleat patch. There were, however, more than a few torn warriors, angry red, who traced my rapes across my own upbourne hand, coloring it in witness against my crimes.
In my frustration and eagerness, I aquired cuts as quick as the berries. Cherry Hawaiian Punch strobed my palms and fingertips an alarming red. These I would eat at once, would have wolfed them if I had been paitient enough to collect a lot, my own dusky flavor laved in with the quick tickle sweetness of the minute cups as I champed.
Drinking my blood, and tonguing these bodies, I became supercharged with my tiny tang of ecstasy and delight. Hooped sunlight moved in me and through me and doubled me upward, trailing rainbows. I fell back down with that light to the ashen earth, splayed myself elaborately on the leaves, and cast shadowed shafts that drifted in a grey way to the ground. I thought of the thorns, my own torn, softly tossing hands, and slipped down in the light, as the light, to the very edge of their sharpness. I watched how they pointed down to a farther darkness. Down, down. And I slid there too, I was so full of my tryst with the light. I followed the thorns' torsion with my eyes, dropping, dropping, losing myself back in the hunched, troubled roots.
Quote I have always had a very great, commanding, or narcicisstic interest in my own life. The players, the layers; the plays, the hazes. ---Me
Perhaps, and perhaps this is appropriate to, or at least indicative of the human nuance, that that which is most important to us, most apt to instruction or use, is also that which remains dimmest in our sight, or farthest from that consciousness which would mold them to their function. As children, the sharp stars in their blue folds of fabric hold our attention briefly, if at all, a firefly caught in the prism; and yet its among the stars that our fates our numbered, our desitinies spelled out, and childhood is the time when the keys to that pattern or constellation may most be turned by our own hands, either to resist the flux or speed the crisis. And in old age, as the farther sight sharpens, and our first acts and memories come at us like flags emblazoned with significance, it is our own children's faces, and our grandchildren's, that are hardest to see in the blur of our ruminations, and it is there, if anywhere, that our legacy shall most strongly either blossom or wither.
My own life, its hazards, stammerings, confusions, hesitations, malformations, daily glories, stampings and unfixed frustrations, have always seemed to me to be of the utterest insignificance, best forgotten before logged in some chattering diary or self-important journal. But now this thought, so strong and so often have I had had it as to have become the merest habituation, pointless as any addiction which robs experience of it volition; so strong and continual has been this hourly betrayal of Mnemnosyne with me that I at last begin to form a suspicion regarding my own conviction, and start to think that I am keeping fallow a field that may become, from the promise of the oily resilience of its loam, my most golden possession. A feast that I might share.
Have a slice. Have half, why don't you?
Is it truly so much greater to conjure than recall?
Quote And, for the first time since the grave, I felt alive. All I know is that I caused their fall from grace. Like a sinister trichina, like a plague germ containing evil kingdoms.... ---The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, Dostoyevsky
"I feel so alive, I'm like to die!"
The voice leapt in a startled arc of song, rising up against the rough graniness of the sea. Less insistant, totally human.
"I burned up all my living..."
A second voice, turning the tune down, came in, rousing the coals at the sea bottom, urging them to burn along with it despite whatever desperate lack of air.
"...A burnt fuse I lie."
The two broke into a snarl of glee at the foreshortened conclusion of the lyric. The surprise of it satisfied. Out of such awkward halves and depleated thirds, they would jury-rig a whole. Such was imagination's erstwhile power.
"What kind of half-ass epitaph is that?"
"Who's left that I want to read it?"
"Jeez. Don't you know any quatrains?"
"I always get bored halfway through the third line."
"Yeah, I haven't read a novel since...."
"Since they stopped writing them."
"Around then."
This is how Dan and I talked, anxious to hammer out Paradise with the minimum number of belling blows. At that time, he lived in an isolated castle by the sea, a winter-deserted condo complex called The Thunderbirds. The air was always vodka grey and stung the lungs.
I drove down the repetetive thunk of a concrete highway long nights, windows rolled down to the savor and the tapeplayer cranked.
We made those harsh nights emit a thrashed paradise during the sincerest instances of our talk. Poets lolling and alone on the rich edge of a menacing sea full of high Atlantic laughter.
Perhaps, at that time, my man Dan was Byron redivivus, all melancholy and longing with the stride of a lasso thrown and thrown from a man's crown into the space of achievement. Maybe in our laggard, sacral nights, filling the treasuries of friendship high, topping the caskets with a phosphorescene melted from our bodies' tallow, maybe I became a secret Shelley, a limned figure of adamant romance and prophecy.
Maybe. Perhaps.
We certainly talked alot. We talked the big talk. God himself stood aside from our quarrels; graves were ashamed of their thin grass, their mortality. We walked through the condo's enclosure, skirted the deflated pool, and shouted or whispered as the wind alternately hit us or abated.
"Miracles and pinwheels flying from human eyes...."
"The tranced endeavor of a living being...."
"Floods of money...!"
"Acres of elysian fame...!"
"I guess we're normal for heroes."
"Don't bet on it, poet."
We toggled right, onto the boardwalk, me ringing the handrails at emphatic points. Our spirits were bent up to the very charging bowsprit of adventure. We'd throw ourselves as high as light!
See if we don't!
"Treat one person as if they moved in your joy, and the whole world must change."
"A million Shakespeares. Minimum."
We watched the ocean sizzle as our tears appeared.
Making a lank X in the dirty sand while thunder murmured at the other end of the horizon, Dan had had it with falsities, compromises of every sort. Life was too short! Killing Joke was the scarring aria in his heart those days. I was a blitzed witness to his intensity.
We must undertake the triumphant, backcracking work of luring and lighting aflame the real, undimmed whimsey of a Paradise. Nothing less would keep us alive in that world we found ourselves waking up and waking up in day after day. I eyed a stray line from a Dan poem and decided that its incipient philosophy contained all of a hundred lifetimes of endeavor, the striven ring that would marry my carriage back to the hurrying dirt and dragging salt of earth. We would work and hurt-- and oh so crowingly aspire!-- toward what we could only call A Credent Regale.
A seagull with a broken foot churned in circles, hopping after storm-confused fish left by the tide.
Winter and our inner immensity helped us cobble together a manual for heaven. Ghosts and Princes.
"This is newness," we would muse.
"This is the last of the oldest words that ever were."
Over this pastiche, this insistance, tied together into a magpie's wings near the exposed bones of the Atlantic, we poured the golden gasoline of our souls. All of us we would lay a name to and were willing to incinerate or ressurect, which was everything, we poured upon our labored and loved construction. All of us indeed. We gained a majesty ignited by a simple laugh. There was a haunted conviction in our eyes. Every talk unlocked a vortexed moment, a flaming tidal wave that lifted every tugboat doubt, every maybe, into a nerve-revving "Yeah, baby!"
And at our backs we could always hear Urge Overkill intoning drear, "Yeah, baby, you're running out of time!" What would be the first rehersal of our project? We spoke of the annointed joy of poetry.
We sparred for the releasing hiss of mystery. Some tumble of becoming. Not the spongy dungeon of mere experience, that tale told and told, but some relation of life's more true character. Not just the clapped sticks of language, its infinity just a lucky resonance between lung and tooth, but something more, something other, as when folded waters come clearer over a large stone until they seem so clear as to not even be there at all, except as a sort of shine.
Quote Is man no more than pain? Speak for me, scars. ---Randall Jarrell
Self-defense is a tragic proposition. Like admitting that the person inflicting the hurt has closed down your world in some way, excommunicated themselves from a lighter sharing of your experience, a something the two of you might co-laterally join in making. A mutually loomed aluminum spider's web, for instance, attracting flies.
"All right now, you boys line up over here. Gil, right here. Geoff you stand next to Gregg."
The freshly broken willow switch made a soft lapping sound against Dad's pantleg.
"Now, you boys have got to learn a lesson. And, unfortunately, I'm the one who's going to have to be your instructor in this lesson. I'd like to say that this is going to pain me more than it will you, but you're the ones who're going to be rubbing your rears."
Dad thumbed his glasses up his nose a bit, and with a facial tic erased the start of a smile that had been curling into his rough cheek. We all thought nervously about standing around to get hurt, and shivered a little while we moped and frowned and felt sorry for ourselves. We'd done a lot worse stuff and never been punished! Dad leaned behind Gil like a batter, limbering up and spitting grasshopper blobs of his Beeches Blended Chew. Gil began to darken, doubled over to get switched with the whipping branch.
Sllisshht!
Incestuous and tragic, the big switches hit. His face became a rigid mask, deepening to bruise. Gil was six inches taller than me and relaxed and strong as a tiger cub, and he had clouded tears going to his nose and shivering off into the grass. I started shaking in my pants. I worked my restive palms against my dungarees, pinching my knees, trying to get an idea of how much pain I could reasonably tolerate before crying. My skin was so sensitized by the drama I was witnessing, that I flinched even from the easy, baby pinches I administered, and I stopped after a trial of only two or three squeezes.
Sllisshht!
We all stood under the old willow, crevassed with age. Had it seen other boys tortured by their fathers? The horse-owners who lived in this area years ago, or even farther back, some sunburnt Chippewa biting out alien curses at his father's rawhide rancour? That dusty willow had always lounged under me after school when I would ride it as if it were a glad raft, and the meadow my slow sea. It was conveinient, adapatble, willing to bear my weight as I laughed up and down, with no terror in my heart that the high branch would ever break, or shake me off like a wet dog, or launch me into some parabola ending on my crew-cut skull. I loved the dry song of its leaves, its bouncey-touncey nearness and warm flank.
Sllissht!
A finger of the million fingers of the heavy willow insinuated itself against the skin between my eye and ear, and I shot back with a jerk. My eyes pinballed frantically about, and found no safe object upon which to discover even one second of rest.
Sllissht!
Quote I felt my veins contorted with the tongue. ---Randall Jarrell
Of my first contrivances with the language the records are remarkably mute. It seems I lingered long in Wittgestein's unutterable realm. Long ago, my crayolas would crumble at the quick turnings required of letters, the full stops needed for words, sentences, sequential consciousness of every sort. Only when I drew a rainbow, or troubled myself with the eager, orange-yellow depiction of a duck's foot would my colors flow, my tiny hand entranced.
The first word I really remember is a name. A name, the avatar of a being completely alien to myself, yet loved by me. And I at no time ever demanded its thought or held that Other accountable to my fidgitings with the real. I only loved. Even now the loud syllable comes ringing in my able head, solemn and solid over the mutible generations of the grass that cooled my feet at its being called, melodious and low out of my father's tobaccoy mouth: "Hey, Duke! Duk-ey! Duke!"
And the golden retriever would return, by a circuitous revictus, flowing lapping up to my smile's face, wet up against me, knocking me backwards.
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Permanent night, unmeasured black Without the angry mercy of one star Or any hallucinated grey, by ordered char Returns returns returns returns Imperceptibly to day. ---Incan Dawn Song
I learned to read early, but forgot all that I had learned, happy with my ignorance and pictures. Light itself was fable enough for me, as I spent the too long schooldays tossed in the clear wash of the windows of Atlantic Elementary School, which had wavy aqua blocks emplaced above its pupils, making everything in the classroom seem drowned and gracious at the same time; high tea in Nemo's lounge.
The sharded grass, looking so sharp and wet in the sunlight, was like an old man's beard to run through. This land, and the people I shared it with, would claim me for far longer than I had ever intended. These early mists, rising like the elders' breath at dawn, would keep me near them, deep in their swirls, trying to out-race the fateful knowledge traced in that ancient face much past my fledgling years and beyond even the time when I was completely grown and could rightfully expect to inherit what I had always thought of as my own: my self, my freedom.
Perhaps, in the extenuated tale of my growing up, language became an escape slide to veer away from these restrictions, setbacks, and evil defeats, but I don't think so; or, more honestly, perhaps yes at first, but not so afterward. That I know.
Darling scars touch me at my knees, knuckles, and at this stitched rainbow in my eyebrow, gotten for love. Each happened in the rubbery backsnap of happy play. Darting to the save and failing against damp gravel, skidding my bike in a drainage sandbar as I sang, eyes closed, She's sixteen, she's beautiful, and she's mine-- and wiseassing to a frat boy that, yeah, everybody loves that girl of his.
These scars mark the parts where my soul's self-involvement and heart's digression interfaced with the world's tough surface, much for the worse for me. Thankfully, I learned nothing, and continue to ride and sing in the heroin-heaven of my midnight high. But there are other scars, interior tremors, other incisions and scrape-graces that face me when I survey the sunlit skin of my balloon.
What knotted burns or bloodied clots have I got, you ask? Words, dears, words.
The trivial, the transient, and the ecstatic each partake of the scarred liturgy of that sumptuous human rumor: ourselves. But when did the Word's star first fall into my heat-risen heart--- that fatal, fabulous word I have yet to shake back at Heaven's attic, up, up, into the intolerant height of the passing sky?
I'm sure that we "had at" poems in grade school, and that we were learned God's talk in church; but none of that sticks or glistens within me now, however. So when, and from where, did this shafted word ever arrive?
From Japan. In college.
Parked at a long wooden study table, scarred with charms, I was going through a forlornly fresh poetry book, signed out unthumbed from the library simply because I knew nothing about it. It was there that the world's outpouring moan found its poor mooring within me by the short, sweet hook of a haiku.
Somehow, coming across these words cut by daylight, warm on the mute page of an ivory book, set up glamorous echoes in the dark harp that hung unbeaten in my ribcage. There the sparking arc of another's words touched and ignited. Surprises toe-danced blatant beauties in my new being. Word, symbol, situation, action, tone, meaning, all worked at once on whatever I was, and-- for the very first time ever-- made sense of my senses, and tied my mind to my life with searing, unrepeatable cords.
Fallen leaves Float slowly back to the branch--- Ah! butterflies!
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Each time with you was one more chance to crash through.
---Jayne Ann Phillips, Black Tickets
I don't really know what to make of sex. The large vaginal flare, the dainty anus. The heaving machinery both slippery and limber at the same time. It just seems as though we were constructed for the pure sake of a laugh, done on a dare. A mistake, like a misshapen pancake.
Sex itself is a very guarded art, the adolescent initiation burning deep into the bones. Even the anti-rites of abstinence cling to their smokes with a vacuous fervor and tenaciousness born of desperation. My first time hovered on the honed border between these two duoverses, two worlds that seemed so different from each other, and yet were inextricably tied by the sameness of their subject matter. Sex. The only slim difference, was its abscence or presence. I hovered between them, razored back and forth, a feather in a windtunnel.
My first love motioned me into coolness on a hot night. Spoke a loaded miracle into my rude, unruined ear. Sixteen if a day, I had happened by her doorway, we having shared an eyeing up and sly smile in the school hallway, my heart scatting in the summery dimness that never got quite totally black.
Shelley winked me in past the glowing doorframe, angelic white indented only by her backside, the nightlight above her wild and wirey in the tinny dark. Shelley let me know that her parents smoked dope most evenings and crashed out on the back porch, almost never arising to investigate any disturbance. She walked me past their dog, an old beagle, sixteen if a day, lying all bones and skin on his smelly spot on the twisted rag rug in the kitchen, beyond which the stairs tiptoed to her room.
She motions me on. Her folks are out cold among the clouds of their burnt-offerings, disoriented mosquitoes lazing into the sheer screen. She takes my hand, running her fingers from my wrist to my knuckles first, leading me on. My hand closes on hers as though holding a just-risen loaf of new bread. We laugh carefully at how much we're able to feel for each other, so young, even to ourselves. We smirk at the righteous skies we see in each others' eyes, at how our lips are mantled with a tipsy ruby like our very first glassfuls of California red.
She reaches the first step in two lopes, as if she's stepping over puddles. Her cream shoulder under a terrycloth bunched strip of stripes and a child's elastic spaghetti string stops an inch from my face. I lick it and laugh, my face a real cherry of embarrassment. Our sneakers squeal like a rubber moon fast-pacing its glimmering track, and we hurry up to the second floor.
A certain feeling begins to lap at me, a paitient ocean that has just reached my testicles. Suddenly, there's an insistant pink eraser in my pocket, turned hard sideways digging into my thigh. A fantastic, bristle-bursting overgrowth seems to spring over everything I've known before, ragging the orderly yard of my sedate soul with a fistful of harsh greens. I can't figure out to save my life what kind of eyes Shelley has.
Her lithsome eyes zero in on my troubled tears.
"I can't believe how beautiful...."
"Sure you can," she says, shying into my shoulder and putting my hand on the pumping dust of her heart, the sighs contained in her breasts. Dusky eyes, I decide. "Don't be so sad."
"I'm smiling," I say.
"I can feel it on my neck. And those tears are sweet."
Braille aereoles stiffen and mix in my hands full of rain and ripe uncertainty. I stand there confused, lost in the rumored odors of her hair. The moon reaches in to steady me. Our tongues fold the roving moon that bleaches her Piglet curtains back and forth. Our breaths trade addresses in our lava mouths. Her hand spasms on my sore bluejeans, kneading.
I became brighter and brighter in her limited grip.
Before I knew it, my fingers had found a fresh wetness, a loneliness. A relief for the dry delight that budged my intrusive buckle. Shelley's crooning moan oscillated louder, profoundly open.
We scooped the moon with our bones and loins.
We scooped the moon.
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The frost performs its secret ministry Unhelped by any wind.
---Coleridge, Frost at Midnight
One of my very earliest habits was to always wake in moonlight during any snowfall. My shy, sleepless eyes would always pop open and take in the bluwhite luminosity with a quiet avidity. I'd get up from the bed, walk silently in my feety PJs down the long pale tongue of the hall to either the chill kitchen with its sharktooth patterned linoleum, filling a series of abstract squares, where I would lean my nose on the windowsill until I could see through my own dark eye the shaggy rhododhendrons and sparse, strangely whitened driveway level and smooth as a swimmingpool brimmed with milk. Or else, turning left, I'd wind up in the middle of the livingroom, standing quietly surprised on the shadowless carpeting, staring through a transparent wall of windows at a world transmogrified, changed instantly and immensely at the cue of some invisible, silent chime.
Here was a world totally, momentously different from the one I would really wake up in after the halogen stabs at dawn. Every twig was loaded with mounds of perfect powder. Where my ordinary chores had been performed that afternoon, an alien veil had been laid. Nothing breathed or moved where so much busyness had been before. All my boyhood observences were sharpened by the suddenness and completeness of this white revolution, by its pervading newness--- unexpected in the extreme. Everything was tremendous, changed. Here was a world I could never have predicted, never expected, or even have imagined--- making faces in the mirror or going eyes closed all day one day. I greeted it with a solemn happiness that had no apprehension.
Gregg Glory
let me.. I'll show you... watch out for put your... on... and come along with me let's follow.. I think... we'll go.. and kill some.. we'll break all.. in the.. I'll get.. buy you that.. you can wear it on a.. and we'll spit.. flip him the.. slash the tires.. now don't say a word I'll take.. scratch yr.. I'll show you how to sneak up on.. I'll take spokes.. and a magpie's w.. and i'll tie em.. I'll steal.. cut the braces.. bury em in the night.. just put.. we'll hop.. we'll slide all.. to N O in the fall.
But what about when your own body attacks you? Straps you to the chair, and makes you jig with the voltage?
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