Falling through the verbs, impaled upon a noun. Snowblind I wonder: did the Watcher see the future as Trinity tapdanced on his eternal soul?
Birthed as a small red dot, as if the blood of the doomed, spit forth by a typewriter ribbon worn to shreds. Not a dot, a period, full stop.
The dot growing like a red balloon being inflated by the gasping breaths of an asthmatic, in ebbs and tides. The printed word, unchained.
Kindred napped for a few pages, everything was static between his snores. He rolled over in his dream, fell to the edge of the discards.
A draft woke him up, a discarded draft, pages disheveled, slipping from 20# white linen double bond he was in a bind dropping dots of ink.
Snow covered the farmlands of the Great Plains. Kindred in freefall, arms out, whee, he was nine again, daddy let him on a ride at Riverview.
No not snow no no no closer what no stay away not fields not borders squares and lines not star routes or fire roads no post office anymore.
E-lectronic brainwaves he heard the wind like typing on a keyboard then a SLAP like satisfied hitting a button named SEND. Postage stamps
the squares were more blank pages, shadowed snow drifts = scratched out lines in pencil wha? who used pencils anymore? Kindred did, right?
BAM, he hit. Smelled linke Ticonderaga#2 lead. Couldn't spell erasures, he seemed to recall scratching joyously his head his ass the words.
Linke? What kind of word was Linke? Kindred tried to scratch it, tear at it with his fingers and his teeth manic. Typo behind a clear screen
Banged his jaw bang a gong war what is it good for good god jaw Kindred poked his finger at the whiteness, like tapping on a glass corpse.
What the scene shift as I looked from behind the hard light Baldo the Magnificent keeps moving his one finger like a nicotine fit, he's gone
and I'm back outside the fourth wall screwball I hear a typewriter my old Smith Corona Galaxy Twelve (What is Hewlett Packard? Tax guys?)
I let myself slide down the pages to the sound, past red balloons of circled words (the ones I would replace) and there he was: a monkey.
Typing at hyperspeed, pages yanked pages yanked one after another my story? his story? why would a monkey have a story? A monkey vampire?
Musty smell of wet sci-fi paperback drenched from leaking skylight in a tiny library in Nebraska. Kindred on his back on the carpet wakes.
Tired bones brittle clattering like a Johnny Walker bottle full of dominoes he staggers to his window and wipes clear the hotsteamed glass.
Flaring lights in freezing rain, the hiss of blood in arteries cranial. Rustling of fist inside greasy bag of buttered popcorn, ear tickles.
Car idling in the parking lot. Not a car, a van. Not a van, an ambulance. Two occupants impassive. Always waiting, a springloaded beartrap.
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