Whale Noises, and Other Tales

Once upon a time,

Octopus Hands loved a haiku writer who’s mother’s from Siam and father just retired from the service where he met her in a hospital one day. Octopi are famous for not knowing what to say to dreamy Siamese girls that would make them want to stay because neither likes restriction, both tremble at constraint. A second-rate guitarist loved an artist who could paint the kind of shapes you see on eyelids when the sun is coming up. He would play. She would paint. His songs would end abruptly as she finally got settled, and she never heard an ending (but she probably liked that better). The air was always thick and sweet with lovely chemicals, and they flew around each other like two parking-lot seagulls but since seagulls have no voices no agreements could be made. The guitarist played a song about a girl who should’ve stayed and confesses that he doesn’t feel like getting high today or telling this same story to an unresponsive page. Writers only ever write about girls who went away without pausing to look backward as they rode the interstate into unfamiliar timezones (at least it seemed that way). She probably sang the songs she now forgot that he showed her and wore someone’s warmth (like his) in the colder terrain that no octopus would dare traverse. The suction marks faded which was bad but what’s worse is her tall little boy finally at long last is able to read a haiku and get past the mere fact of the words on the page to the deeper relation, the cause and effect or the juxtaposition that had prior eluded his unseeking gaze, caught in a syllabic metrical haze. A half-blue boy loved a half-yellow girtl. Her hair grew straight. His hair grew curls if he let it get long, which he probably didn’t. They listened to Lou Reed in the kitchen then smoked on the porch or the deck or the playground. The half-blue boy never said once when they layed down: ‘I need you like cigarettes, taxes, and tea. Let’s be honest. This ‘us’ contains you and me.’ And the half-yellow girl probably waited a while, thinking the words lay behind every smile, the way that the meaning is beyond the word. He’d swear that he said it and she hadn’t heard but he never finished his song anyway. Probably, no song could get her to stay. Octopus Hands waits alone in a cave forty thousand leagues deep still hearing her name in whale noises.

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~ by perfectionatrix on March 4, 2010.

One Response to “Whale Noises, and Other Tales”

  1. This is beautiful.

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