there hasn't been an instance, so far, in my life that prodded me to read pliny. but recently, somebody told me, non sequitor, about this one show elephant, mentioned in the elder's natural history, which was rather slow to learn its tricks. and so, the master thrashed its spine raw. later that night, the master peeked into the tent and found the obtuse mr. dumbo practicing its shtick.
lately, too, (or could only because of the rains) i have been considering again the trick (yes, for that's just what it is, i suppose, a trick.) of picking a pretty-pretty word, say, "dense" instead of "dim witted"- as in "hearing her wildly moan, her dense boyfriend stopped in the heat of fucking her, thinking she was soughing in pain." what is is, perhaps, always hurtful, so fucking full of raw welts.
this morning, in a forlorn laundromat, i was startled to retrieve a batch of mealy grained boxers and undershirts from a cantankerous dryer. i forgot to feed fabric softener to my load. words should, perhaps, like fabric softener, mince the caustic brush of the world against our half-hardy hides.
____________________________________
bronx fall
the cold insinuates itself into the room. outside, the rain slicks up yesterday's grime from the road. the morning, gray as the sun lazes behind the clouds. memory is a fell thing. i remember hating—always—waking up sweating to manila’s mornings. shivering under a flimsy comforter now, i shudder more at the thought of sweat beads dribbling down the little of my back.
