冰猫侦探社

I’m sick of not knowing.   A life bereft of surprises, In that I revel with tremor. The calendar  shudders at any touch. November is all but over. For his own life he fears. Confident the day stauches a rivulet of possibilities, I want to shove the knife And carve out of me a fountain of roses. To see the landscape, whatever is running under this hide. I want sobering cuts.   They give me a tease. I want peeled truth.   They dismiss with a tickle. Never will I thrill at anything   in a baby-proofed cell. A baby’s life is locked in itself. A baby’s pain gives motive for wonder As if pain is a novelty. The unwrapping grows wearisome. Doubts begin to envelop me   That the wrap is the gift. If I wreathe a garland about my neck, That, at last, might stir a ripple in me.

My father gulped vine From a bowl, Scrabbled four grapes  only From a glass In his lonely carousing Near dawn. I counted As one tumlbed After another, Another and The other .  At what I didn’t understand I giggled. At the wall, The drunk man pelted his rage, Gathering wool under the stain When the day broke.  Lilac kisses in the chalk, bedded  violently ;  Where my future to be found: A sour-scented splatter.  My wailing took march; My mother's howling strung to a melisma. Once where had bloomed innocence Cannoned  a great war.

1.  I always wear my hair short. I wonder how it feels to let it sprawl. And I become sickened with dread for not knowing - would I like a nice mane for myself? Now I understand why people paint on their skin, puncture layers of tissues and run rings through the nose. They just want to know. 2.  Now it’s months since I got my hair cut. When my fingertip skims over the end of it, I, startled, seem to have met another self. 

I want to be loved so let me. But not by many. I want to be heard so let me.  But not once for all.  I want to be rude so let me. Even once too often. In the gleaming teeth I see the world beaming  And myself wailing.  Still I want to be loved  Just by you. Maybe. Just about enough.  Maybe. Maybe.

The sorry look in his sockets  coagulated  when I waved away his tray of apologies with a vehement gesture. Don’t be sorry. Beware.

He washed honey with hot water down his eating pipe.  I said it’s drinking flowers with a straw of bee.  He didn’t see the cruelty of the joke.  I didn’t see the futility. 

Fumbling words moved my drowsy mind to a laborious clarity at midnight. I grabbed my phone and typed words in an order that best framed my state of mind, tying back my elusive little thoughts in an obedient pony tail from an unruly mop. The flicking cursor winked at me, encouraging and tentative, as if to make sure that I’d spilled it all out, with a pair of caring eyes, those of a stomach-pumping nurse. This made me sick. You sentient jackanapes! I thought with venom in my hiss. Then I shut off the screen and sent the words to no one.   I gazed into the hallow of blackness, silhouetted by the fuzzy rims from the signal light on the air conditioner, time grazing my drenched-cold skin, every second that passed ticking a welt on it. Another night’s gone white. I thought motionless, under my heavy breath so moist that I could squeeze it for dewdrops. I wouldn’t want to bury my nose under the cover - that would be action involved and I’d rather die. In my small wishful thinking, everyt...

My desperation for words is taught His nose is statuesquely tall What my almond eyes mouthed I wish he could tell

I gazed at the shopping assistant over the counter who was on the phone asking her colleague a simple question about the inventory. Then she truncated the call and haltingly hammered some clunky, jutting buttons on the landline and thus whack-a-moled another number. This time she plonked the receiver on the counter as to liberate her hands for something distracting and insignificant, which gave her an air of busyness. She didn’t ask who was answering when the call went through. She just sent shivers down the cable lines asking the same booming question, like words but a fresh tonal presentation. The voice from the other end was immediately reassembled from the electrical current, muffled, so she cut it short in a fit of impatience and parroted the same question with no creative alterations this time, apparently not interested in any illumination from the other part. And I thought to myself: This woman is just a dot.

The thing about having an inordinate amount of tea mere hours before bedtime is not so much the fear of losing sleep as the brutalization from a confined body with a  mutinied mind. Through some hard-to-explain yet does-exist mechanism, my head is always leaps ahead the rest of my shell, which sounds excruciatingly funny because it is (just think of a cartoon cat holding its severed head running in circles while the house mouse gives a hearty, noisy snuffle), but does not make me any more endearing. You are like a swordsman with a freshly botoxed face, says my mom; you are the coldest person I’ve ever met, says one of my solar female friends, to which, almost by way of retort, I responded “‘cause I’ve never expected to catch heat from you?” I’m not cold, I mean, at least not as siderale  as they made me out. I’m not justifying anything just because  it’s 4 in the morning and I’m hyperactive after that dammed tea with nothing better to do. I, personally, do not see anythin...