cartharge ms

Inside of the pain management clinic Momma wagged a smidgen more than usual.

The Cave. Yeah she felt like she understood what that peasant man had been on about. Inside of her the beasts walked behind her eyes projecting outward before the flame. Spirit. It was in there, everyone cept the great harlot believed that, maybe the Jews too. Nebulous, a shadow moving over the death waters.

She loved the swamp. Would try and draw it out on some papers she kept in a plastic sack. She would rub the expensive paper between her fingers and something stirred. The cicadas song was richer there, the air tugged back, weightier somehow. She felt like her house would one day be in the swamp, clapboard painted green with mesh to keep out the critters but not else.

Halogen Incense.  I always thought how beautiful those two words were.  Like Cellar Door or Rise Up.  I always liked Aragorn's line in one of those movies when he said, "you are a shieldmaiden of Rohan, I do not believe that will be your fate."  Plain faced girl was worried that she'd die without honor and without her family.  We all worried on that.

It sounded like a side of deboned meat being hit with a Louisville slugger, he’d been there and few people went around with bats. Guns mainly.   Its just wet and the sound is hard, aint much more to say. Breaking his hand had been a salvation. He thought he’d found religion but he’d found instead a boy from Columbia. Alerts rang. Grady felt drugs were a last option. Open but last on line. Everyone he grew up with said “in line” but Grady was careful with his mastery of what he considered the only separation betwixt man and dog.

Manfreid Israel Romele was Russian. Perhaps German. Older. Beautiful. Cement blonde. How is a fighter so beautiful? Grady knew.

Smoldering halogen incense prayed for them. Piss hissed, boiled up.  

Hand still wadnt right but he had some new skills.

The boy was a fucking nightmare. Glowed. Darkness. He’d seen it before. Everything was loose when he prayed. The boy standing feet away, steam roiling off of his neck, with “Molon Labe” tatted across the front of his windpipe, barely visible on the purple skin.

The Chevelle was purple too and Grady wouldn’t lean on it. Surrounding the Big Red Barn choking the purity of the moment were the ‘chickens’. Grady had said, ”clucking foul” but his folk just spit out the gumbo. Ancient and comfortable. It was more than he could bear of at time he would sit in the pot till he’d eatin it. Particles of hay and heat, cicada’s his private herald. Easy 220. Easy. Against his knees fabric calmed his fingers, he thought of his sister; the smile closed. He thought of Teddy on his horse, the pompous, articulate fool.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood…”

So fucking obvious, like ham-in-hand. Natchitoches. Ham-in-Hand Festival 94. You could walk across the Sabine on boats, smells of the Cajun Microwave’s buried in the soft loam some 100 paces from the water.

He didn’t think it much, plied with Mozi, Xenophon and 1st Chronicles 4:10 kept him tied firmly to many things that were not tied to him. Buddha-less.

She scuttled over the grooved Cyprus, kaleidoscope of man reduced, he saw her; languidly absorbing the violence to come. Beneath her impressive multi-spectacled visage was her load, atwitter. Looked of fine hairs in a sharp breeze, her brood beneath her belly. She leaned back as if to sit or box or pray, front legs circling in the direction of bigger mans dead face.

Lawd have a way, boy you ready?

The man was fat, suspenders framing a whet shirt with no where to go came up on Grady’s boy Ara too fast.

Ok we ready?

Ill kill you ifin you don’t settle back.

Things was tight, Grady knew all bout this here.

Aight then.

Theys a bit a nonsense bout that bet?

No. Straight up.

Mine’ll be in money orda?

Fat man took on a greasy bugger as backward he moved, “that man fittin to fuck you.”

They were car black, and it really aint right, that type a black. Give em almost like invisibility at night. And nobody wants a be around a pack a purple black cousins leering bouts in the dark, like that shine you can see you’r flection in. Give pause and think about a black you. How fucking mad you’d be. Fat man giggled into his cerchief and sat down on a bale; he thought, looking toward the unimpressive white boy, that this’d be right soon over.  In truth he would like to see that boy get fucked but he kept his eyes on the ground with that thought.  People'll smell that shit.

Grady prayed a bit, squatted and thought of something like a dwarf star painted on a canvas the side of the barn.

He knew the boy’d come over the top and heavy, he knew hed move left and the boy’d come in with a quick step and a lunge at his knees. All the cat in that man was now cutting its way to the top the breath was bull-like. The red rims mean he’s a drinker probably and he favored his left knee a bit. Grady felt sorry then. Sorry for his life and his momma, sorry for the man who was gonna try a kill him, sorry for the fat man who bet against his own kind, sorry that Mississippi water that he smelled on everything was growing less pungent. Sorry God was real and poetry was to hang him. Sometimes things seeded afor birth ripen when they aint wanted.

Boy pulled a dang gun.