Air Creatures

A billion little creatures slip silently through the air. They hover through the air as a fish in water only they cannot be contained by glass. No glass has ever stopped these creatures.

The creatures have knives and chains and float around spoiling for a fight. They have heavy boots and creature eyes. With creature swiftness they form a fighting triangle and attack desk lamp light bulbs and trash cans ruining their contents and taking their casualties.

Creatures unlike what you’re thinking about with rotten, hanging arms and ten-gallon hats roam the air. We breathe when they want us to.

Letter to my Teeth, on the Day of their Hurting

Dear Teeth,

Oh teeth, are you listening? Why are you hurting me? I have cleaned you with paste and brush for many, many years. I birthed you from the womb of my gums and now you reject me. Steal my thoughts from precious food. How cold and disgusting you are. How disloyal. How spiteful. Why don’t you just curl up and blacken like dead things. Why couldn’t you just chomp and cut food without shooting, stabbing messages of hurt through my body. You make me hate teeth. You make me eager for old age when I can gum food, my beloved food friends, without you in the way. You make me want an ice skate and a rock.

Teeth, if you had tears, I would like tears to be coming from your eyes if you had eyes.

Your friend,

Eric

Trashy Tuesdays

I went on a run and then a stroll on this Tuesday evening and happened upon some choice trash that I feel like sharing.  First, I found two card tables, only slightly water logged, that I noticed between clutching at my heart and spitting up lung.  I made it a point to come back and check them out before I finished my run and decided that one trashy dirty collapsible table was enough for me.  It’s now drying in my hallway.

Another fun thing I found was a little dead mouse at the end of a driveway.  It made me think of how small dead things at the ends of driveways like the one I was passing by were.  And how sad.

Being as it rained about 6 inches this morning, I felt like I shouldn’t touch the fabric love seats and baby toys with rainwater dirt splashes all over them so I went home after a quick loop.

Now, the only things left on my list of “what I want from the trash” are a big shelf for my back yard, tools of any kind, shampoo bottles with a little bit left, old magazines, drywall and a grill.  I need that grill!

Idea for a Film

A spider is crawling onto a desk just as a young woman sits down.  Her reaction upon seeing the spider is to cry out and run away.  Using a slow motion effect, one can see that spit flies from the girl’s mouth, along with a scream, coating the spider’s eyes and back area.  Limping away, the spider finds a hole and crawls into it.  We follow the girl back to where she is standing on a chair telling her boyfriend to that he must go kill the spider that she assumes is still waiting to scare her on her desk.  The girl is wearing socks with ruffles, like a little girl.  The boyfriend takes off his shoe and disappears into the room.  The camera zooms in on a file that reads “Human Essence Half-life Toxic Testing Study” along with another pair of ruffled socks on top.

The spider wakes up from a fevered sleep and stretches its legs.  Upon inspection, he learns that his legs have turned into bones and are covered with skin!  He lets out an audible noise that no spider has ever produced and realizes he has a voice.  He finds on the ends of his leg, he has smaller legs that he can move individually.

The Man/Spider has a sudden urge to harm all humans and sets off to bite and strike fear into them as only a small naked talking man/spider is able.

Valkerie Dream

I’ve never seen the movie Valkerie or however you spell it but I had a dream I was going to kill Hitler and it was as action-packed or more action-packed than what I think the movie might be.  The farthest I got on my missions was a frontier town looking place where I had to run up a ramp and light some Germans on fire with my blow torch.  Before that, I had to organize my Army bag, which was very similar to the backpack I carry now.  I hate Hitler.

Thoughts One Could Think On and Not Be Wasting Time

My sinews are aching with the small tears of exertion. 

From the hallway comes immigrant-lungs-meeting-cleaning-supplies coughs. 

Ingested onion taste coats my slimy food breach and clouds my blog thoughts. 

Birds, they peep and then get out of my strangle range.

Magnificent force, the force of gravity…the force of the grave.

Communion Cracker Down!

If anyone doesn’t know what intinction is, it’s when you dip the cracker representation of Jesus’ body into the grape juice representation of Jesus’ blood and then eat the drippy bread-ish cracker.  It is done at church to remind people of Jesus.  It’s not like at Catholic Church where the priest lays the bread into your mouth and then pours a little wine into your mouth from a communal cup; it relies a lot more on the rememberer: his skill, his basic motor functions.  It’s a lot of pressure.

Yesterday, I dropped the cracker into the grape juice.

It started well.  I reached into the little wooden bowl and went for the big piece like I always do but then it ended up being an illusion of a big piece and I unsteadily came up with just the tiniest bit pinched sideways between my fingers.  People were behind me so I made for the juice quickly as the cracker wiggled back and forth like a guy climbing a sideways rope ladder toward a carnival prize.  Right when I thought I had it, post-dip and pre-rocket toward my mouth, it slips out and sinks to an unseen depth.

I’m like “dammit” under my breath, already assuring my spot in hell but then I just make the move like everything’s all right.  Empty hand up to lips and furious chewing of nothingness, feigned composure.   I turn quickly and walk back to my seat staring at the floor. 

I imagined the people playing pop-Christian music-to-commune-by up front looking at me to the side of their microphones, creasing their foreheads.  They hold themselves back from stopping the music, exposing me to the congregants and forcing me to fish out my sacramental failure, demanding an explanation, attempting an exorcism, hitting my forehead with their open palms. 

In my chair, I stare at the back of my eyelids pretending to feel the benefits of a successful communion and trying to guide my harried thoughts to a prayer.  After a few minutes, I give up and settle on the hope that God’s enjoyment of representations doesn’t extend to my empty mouth.