Greg
Boyd collects over two dozen pieces of experimental prose and poetry in
this collection. If you would like a change of pace from conventional
writing, this little book is for you. Here's a bushel basket of snippets
to serve as a sampling:
THE VISIONARY by Kieman David
He said that he's seen things, visions, because of a weakness the shape and size of twin acorns in his brain.
These
small pockets of tissue rested behind the heavy bone of his forehead.
Queer, snug kernels of an offending inner eye, they had been skull
wrapped, protected, from fingers that would have pucked them out long
ago.
"He fell off the disker," his mother said, pointing a thin arm to the potato field. "He's better now."
She
used the same arm to guide her son to a stack of greyed boards inside
the machinery shed. She sat him down. With her fingers she probed
beneath his stubble hair, tracing the lines of scars sun a quarter inch
deep into his head. His lips curled.
"Gone now," his voice was thick tongued. "Must have crushed them acorns, made them leak or something."
ALLIES by Gregory Burnham
When
he was six years old things weren't going right, So Carter strangled
his imaginary friend, Bud. With each twist of the rope Bud couldn't
believe it was happening. Fearing that Bud's friend, Jim, might tell on
him, Carter strangled him, too. All this in the playroom while the TV
was on; Captain Kangaroo. Carter felt no remorse about putting them to
rest, especially since they could be resurrected at virtually any
moment, unhurt, healthy and alert. Carter's mother was in the kitchen
talking on the telephone to Bud or Jim's mother. Carter was sure she'd
be pleased when she heard his imaginary friends wouldn't be eating meals
with them for awhile. Bud's mother, however, would be very upset at the
news. Not that he and Bud and Jim went around being subversive, but
they did break small house rules, the ones with the big ramifications.
So
carter grew up that was, knocking off Bud and Jim whenever he felt like
it. He could hang them, shoot them, run them over on his bike, blow
them up, push them down the stairs, light them on fire, stab them (his
favorite), slug them, beat them, starve them to death. All with
impunity. All without batting an eye. It was great fun. They never
protested, no matter what. They were good friends, the best.
IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD by Richard Martin
A man sits on his porch counting to infinity.
No matter when i pass, what the season, he is there
whispering numerical sounds in the air.
Sometimes his wife appears beside him
holding a sign that reads: HE'S BEEN DOING THIS FOR YEARS!
FRIDAY NIGHT by Jeffrey Zable
Outside
my window a woman is being raped by a six foot centipede. Her screams
make it difficult to concentrate on the television. Finally I notice she
is able to escape and is running up the street. A huge florescent
butterfly swoops down from the sky and lifts her off her feet. Slowly I
rise and turn to another channel . . . wondering what I missed.
ODE TO JOY by Lee Nelson
My death was confirmed when the morgue-nurse lowered the sheet and showed me my own body.
"It's not permitted to touch the corpse," she said.
The
eyeglass pinch-mark on the bridge of my nose has already faded, and the
lids were closed. I asked if I could look into my eyes, but she
refused.
PROOFREADER by Tim Hensley
"The stock is smashed
repeatedly by type and travels along a back conveyor belt under heating
ducts which back the ink dry. An employee inspects the product and
discards imperfections. The rest fall into a cardboard box and are then
placed in a different cardboard box," the overweight woman said.
She
took a look at his application and offered him a rope of black licorice
from a plastic tube on her desk. He was applying for the position of
proofreader of wedding invitations. He wanted a part-time job while he
went to school.
THE HEAD by Andrée Chédid
What
am I doing here, lying on the nape of my neck in the corner of a
doorway? I try to move and rise, but nothing around me stirs.
where are my arms, my chest, my stomach and my legs? I can't find my body. My neck leads nowhere.
Yet I'm here, certainly here, and I'm still seeking, but finding nothing, no further trace of myself. Only this head. I'm only there, in this head. Only a head! Is it possible?
Through
my hair, I can feel the hard and rough surface of the pavement. If I
raise my eyes, I can see a balcony jutting forth, overflowing with a few
green plants and vines. I'm therefore out in the open, a lead lying on a
sidewalk and that's all. I'll have to get used to it.
MINIATURE STORIES by Tom Chao
"I
love you!" he screamed to the fat woman. "I'm a robot!" And sure
enough, when he opened up his chestplate, we could all see the
components inside.
It was only their first date. But when the car in which they were riding went over a cliff, they knew it was all over.
In
the future I've got a microphone hooked to a machine which projects
whatever I say as ten-mile-high letters of orange tongues of flame, in
the sky. In the future, no one can escape the tyranny of my existence.
Her
voice sounded apologetic on the answering machine. She really was sorry
that she couldn't come to the phone and answer it right then. But she
was out with her boyfriend. And I called about something else.
TAKE YOUR FIRST LEFT by Joel Dailey
I'm never happy
unless I'm depressed
I fill out the necessary forms
before choosing my socks
I've ruined my life
for an interesting biography
Mornings I spend growling
like a pitbull trapped under a porch
Evenings I rip the night sky
into bacon scraps
Hey! You scratch my back
& I'll scratch my ass
LIFE STORY by Glenn Russell
The
bold letters on the cover read: Harold Blackman – Life Story. The book
looks quite ordinary. One is required to make a special inspection to
see a queer spring-like device along the spine. Harold Blackman opens
the book before him. The title page is completely blank as are all the
pages. He runs gnarled fingers, tips calloused and slightly trembling,
lightly over this ghost of a title page and reflects on the long
agonizing nights when he tried to pen the fire of his youth and the
spume of his manhood without success. What he saw when the ink dried
always left him feeling flat, unsettled. Closing his eyes, he repeats an
incantation learned from a half-crazed Argentine, then opens them
slowly, very slowly. Harold Blackman, weary adventurer, is now standing
on the writing table, shrunken to the size of the book. Lying down on
the title page, the back of his legs, buttocks and backbone relax to the
paper’s slight give. He released a catch on the spine, the leather
cover snapping shut with the vengeance of a mousetrap. But for a muffled
groan all is silence. Over time, the blood seeps through the pages,
forming, words, sentences, paragraphs.
SONG FOR A DICTIONARY by Pillippe Soupault
Philippe Soupault in his bed
born on Monday
baptized on Tuesday
married on Wednesday
sick on Thursday
deathly ill on Friday
dead on Saturday
buried on Sunday
that's the life of Philippe Soupault
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