Tuesday, March 14, 2017


     I stir the soup with my spoon and watch the gray eels writhe and dive, pale teeth glowing in the flicker... there's a pounding, pounding, the whole house is shaking, the surface of the soup is rippling, the eels are knotted in fear, each trying to burrow to the bottom, the floor buckles, the table leaps, one eel is thrown clear of the bowl and hits the floor with a wet thud, without thinking I stomp on it, squishing it beneath my bare sole, the glass in the windows is rattling, beetles tick against the roof, the pots and pans clank against the walls, knives shiver on their strip, slavering to get away; we don't need to stab or poke, they say, just let us have one little slice, a little shave and we'll be happy... there's a high pitched screech as the train strains against the curve, if it was up to me I'd let the thing derail, I'd let the plaster crack I'd let those knives fly free flashing bright like sardines or anchovies for just one moment as they pass, I'd shatter that lantern in the tower, watch the great eye that watches out for the ships grow dark, I'd let the eels crawl up my hand and wind around my wrists, slither up my sleeves in search of that legendary fat blue vein their parents and grandparents and great grandparents whispered of, that source, that never-ending, ever-beginning stream.

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