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| Poemission |
| Block, page 2 |
| Sitting upon the throne, Nurse makes her phone report to a creature of fire dancing on deadlines. "No," she tells him, "he's not responding....to anything." The blank page gives way to a book of inquisition. The black bra is clasped. The throne of the apex looks hideous, but elsewhere arms slip into leather. The Catherine wheel provides the buzzard's feast, but a chain is about his neck. Naughty chrome-laden nurse. "Write!" she growls, tightening the garrote. The writer slams her back upon the wall, and his agony becomes her leash. To the floor with her. The image is echoed on the wall. From atop her he declares slowly, "I'm still stuck!" with handful of mane and fist full of chain. The words on the page accurately portray his pain of nothingness. Her vicious fury drops into submission; she responds well to the leash, even she offers the second cuff to be attached. But back upon his desk, he merely plays with his bowl of Froot Loops. Nurse rolls from the tray and prepares the minced treats. She is dressed in black robes as is he, then Slash-X begins his tune. The writer partakes, and it does him well. The troubadour plays on, the drugs laid on. The doll is ragged, but peaceful. The candle illuminates the vampires, and the red hot wax is soothing. Nurse shields him from solitude. In the blue strobe light she bounces in his lap. At his desk the words come: Blue suffering charge of light, my ash remaining.... Nurse's eyes get bigger in the strobe light. She feeds. The words go on: Remembrance of the guilt we shared set it all on a slow slide down. Nurse wrings the seed from him. The words end: If only I had bothered to care. Disgusted, he rips the page and tosses the crumple to the company of the poor missiles surrounding his waste bin. Sitting upon the throne, Nurse makes her phone report: "He knows he's way past deadline.... no, he's just tearing everything up.... of course, I?m saving every piece." Yet in the end, the deep, grim end, all artifacts were scattered and ultimately destroyed. The memories involved will all die, and it will be the same as if it never happened. Nurse packs up her honey jar, her whips and chains, rolls up her silky comfort and her leather coercion. She steps through his field of crumpled tumblewords, and he begs her to stay, though he doesn't really mean it. With the door closed behind her, the words begin to pour: The home team awaits its visitors, afraid their atrocities told in folk tales would give their children nightmares. I saw the body count and will never forget the carnage. Many opinions were crushed, my own trust severed. The jolly man insisted on the evening news so he could furnish his dreams with dread; otherwise the glee would grow so boring. If the shoreline was not dry, the rivers would never run. He spoke the truth when he allowed that no trace of spit was discernible in the ocean. The writer felt he had found someone else's answer, so immediately faxed it to the fiery one. Then he considered the construction of his raft, dreaming of the wide-eyed woman child who would welcome him on that other isle. There he'd spin her tales of strange lands and stranger people while she smiled and danced for him in the moonlight. Together they would fall into mingled dust, and the night would last a thousand years, but he still knew every morning washes the sidewalks. |