a list of “L” words, made into sentences, and strung together into a narrative.
The lunch lady loved Tuesdays. That was Meatloaf Day, when the bodies of the inevitable victims of teenage lust were ground up and served to the remaining students. There was no lack of ketchup to sweeten the pork-flavored loaves. Ed looked at Caroline, sitting lonely at the end of her own long table. There were few students left, and even so she’d never spare a second glance for a loser like him. It was why they were still alive, unlike their late classmates. If he could the keys to the school’s Land Rover, she might consent to go on the lam with him, instead of waiting around like lambs to be slaughtered. Down the road, past the fields of landmines, out into a world where teen sex was regarded more lackadaisically.
haiku, containing “sweat”
her sweet, post-sex sweat
passion’s fragrance, pooled on skin,
spread by ceiling fan
she wants the good life.
i offer blood, sweat, and tears.
she snidely declines.
we live in Hell’s pit
i swear it on my ball sweat,
welcome to the South
horses sweat, men perspire, and
our women glisten
so, regular exercise, noun, verb, adjective, and adverb, and i’ve got to come up with a noun. my brain screams “VAGINA”, but we have this rather creepy dude in attendance who tried, badly, to sexualize everything, so i just wouldn’t use that word, but it’s in my brain, and i cannot for the life of me think of another noun other than VAGINA. and so finally after minutes of brain-lock, i came up with ‘tupperware’, to join ‘run’, ‘peachy’, and ‘slovenly’.
“just fuckin’ peachy, thanks for asking,” i said, even though he hadn’t. his slovenly ass hadn’t budged off the couch all morning, while i’d been running hither and yon, returning everyone’s tupperware.
just another post-funeral chore.
i wish he’d died, instead of mom.
if he was still sitting there watching football when i got through heating up church-lady-casserole for supper, he might join mom in the grave faster than expected.
no grieving, no tears, hell, he’d been reluctant to leave the television for the funeral, and had sat there like a lump of sun-fermented shit wile everyone came to the house to express their sympathies and mouth their inanities.
i hated him more and more every second and considered if prison would be better than living with him.
list of words, one per minute, work ’em into a narrative.
i swore i’d run for it, i’d bolt, if she told me the kid was mine. no amount of tears were going to fix it this time, she’d cheated on me with every friend i had, and i wasn’t sure even a paternity test would convince me.
“well Wendy, it’s been a blast and all,” i said, when she claimed it was mine, “but you’ve been a home for lonely cocks, including, i’ll admit, mine, for so long, i figure you can find someone with more money and less dignity to take care of you. let him watch you fuck someone else, maybe he’ll get off on it.”
she tried to look wounded, but couldn’t sell it.
“nobody left on the list, asshole. you’re my last chance.”
“hold on, let me see, Wendy,” i said, “see if i can give any fewer fucks… no, i can’t. i’m outta here.”
listening to: the documentary “History of the Eagles” on Netflix