Our war

There is a type of surety in waking up to snow, a pleasure of weight. Ants had gotten to him in the night, something nudged him. For moments upon realizing feeling, a shy cowardice was born lipid, immobilizing and caustic; assumed the people he knew had buried him, thinking him dead. For moments more he quietly prayed to die, wishing that there were some space in the universe for him to die without trying to move, for that would mean terror.

“Wooden men

In the holla

Faces thin

Hollarin bout what could have been

Horror wets the hole

Encroaching fins

Before you attempt to stick it in”

His poem mantraesque in his death-throes.  He lauged aloud beneath the ground

As his head broke through he gasped and cried out, body assuming a posture of expectancy of electricity and sweet free air. Through hair and muck as if sucked into one another, her brown orb found his.

She watched him. Drinking her Community w/ Chicory feeling fairly “just screwed” and inordinately pleased with everything that was Megan-Louise Darla Doutrmont. Somewhere in between the 5th and 6th grade she knew that she would probably end up killing some people. They were everywhere and they were the worst. Rightly she probably had killed more folks that she didn’t know about, than she did.

She danced a bit then, keeping her coffee steadily placid as she broke into a little robot and a couple of drop-daps.

As she dipped in a traditional stripper drop she looked over her shoulder at the object she had married go crashing headfirst through the ice that had formed as he slept in the lounge chair on the dock. she considered the very tan boy whom had sent a variety of pictures to her over the night and sipped at the scalding coffee with exquisite volume. Maybe he would really die out there. Whipping violently on her slippered foot she lurched forward to shower and take some medicine. Megan knew she would come back down and somehow her husband would be in the kitchen lying on the heating vent or some such.

To her eyes walking up to the window it appeared the reverse of a dramatic movie ending. The villan was hallway up from the lake, crawling with exaggerated slowness, as if shot but he was not shot, just a fuckface. She adored calling him fuckface to his face. At large family gathering surrounded by his children and adoring parents she would write it on napkins so just he could see.  His beautiful face.

“Brainard.”

Through the hedge walked Sonny hollering as he ran and the meth she had eaten wrapped in toilet paper kicked in.

She peed a bit as she ran out of the sliding glass door onto the deck.

“Oh my goodness, where have you been?”

They did this with everyone. A charade of a satire. Privately they tried desperately to kill one another so it looked like an accident. She tongued her broken bicuspid and it tasted like an electric fence smelled. In two hours she would have to give the weather down in Baton Rouge and this fuckface was gonna make her have stress lines.