Theorem
Perpendicular lines of traffic came to perch at changing lights. There was a slowing down, a mock-stop, before she would turn right on red. A loud goose came honking from behind. She moved her eyes to the rearview mirror. A white Mercedes SUV, an abrasive woman-face—minor she-devil—tipped back to catch water from a bottle tilted upward. The She hardened her eyes into the devil in the rearview. Flipped up her forearm, all fingers down but the middle one, erect between the seats for a clear view from behind. Knee-jerk. The She never gestures this gesture. Never. Caused by some foul force from beyond. She-devil bats out an angry city-hand that says, What the fuck? The She responds with the same—but in mockery. Inane non-verbals. Says, Fuck off to the rearview.
Muscles relax and The She laughs an open-mouthed laugh at the ignorance that knots the she-devil, at the butterfly effect the she-devil could have struck into action with one measled lay of the hand, one insensitive fingering. Decidedly, the she-devil could never play the flute or please a body part by part. Imprecision. Careless acting. Ungrand grand canyon. With the lay of a laugh and a re-casting of eyes, The She stopped the motion in its Mercedes casing, put hostility fast in a bunching ripple back to its source. She-devil, the great wide with her boomeranged anger, hunkers back half in her basement, half in her attic, caught sisyphean in parallel with herself.
Muscles relax and The She laughs an open-mouthed laugh at the ignorance that knots the she-devil, at the butterfly effect the she-devil could have struck into action with one measled lay of the hand, one insensitive fingering. Decidedly, the she-devil could never play the flute or please a body part by part. Imprecision. Careless acting. Ungrand grand canyon. With the lay of a laugh and a re-casting of eyes, The She stopped the motion in its Mercedes casing, put hostility fast in a bunching ripple back to its source. She-devil, the great wide with her boomeranged anger, hunkers back half in her basement, half in her attic, caught sisyphean in parallel with herself.
3 Comments:
though it does not read like it at the onset, this piece exudes some kind of raw darkness--forged by a city-rage. asphalt and steel and lost intentions.
how weird. i thought i had commented in response to your last post but it wasn't there. and i'm sure i responded to you here, but it isn't here. i said something like, "raw darkness, yes." and something about the drive to not let city-rage get to me. and those intentions that become buried in such. ghosts.
Well, I think that lady deserved it and I hope her blood pressure is now one permanent notch higher.
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