to endear; insinuate; and speak herselves by Faith Mingus
she is awake aside from herself; inside the selves... four. four
measures, strands, and substructures of selves. there are these things
she wanted to try around town: to demonstrate, reiterate, conflagrate,
appease her selves. we are all so bashed like four-winged birds that
she ate a bird a day to flag down the cops. finding mirrors inside the
souls of her frame, she brought them out like whipped asparagus. she
brought them out – out into the downtown. she strategically faced them
so people would not only see themselves, but see each other. and not
only that fat juice, but alSO see the crosswalk bodies blinking and
other items of interprise. there is safety in numbers of four, ten,
and a hundred, so she chose each of these safe(schmex) numbers to
endear herself to the continent. who crows! who crows! in the selves
sa(n)me downtown she’d find/place things (snake)like: frowns,
decosnoreative pillows, brave new birds, wheat and grain pancakes from
off the griddle, trapeze artists without their trapezes, and the
many-faceted mantra of i will never be warm again. the most latter,
she would write in uniball pen on the many bricks of the dry cleaners’
and the leaves of the otter plant. she was never caught for anysing:
she sang fairly quietly, like a snacker afraid to be smelt snacking.
let me fell ya! she would calm and simultaneously silence cranksters
for smiles! a crankster would say to her, “say miss fourselves, would
you have me to become calm and... maybe silent for a smilespell?”
she’d freckle and cackle and say “okay.” just like that: “okay.” and
the crankster would shut up a bit and spread the shut up disease, few
stayed un-selved at that rate. she’da mighty powerful potent woman.
like the crossing of t’s! the sloughing of selves was something she’d
always try to do. like a snake on its last skin though, she’d feel
like every self was the last – that every self had a past. if
sloughing proves unumbilical, sometimes she’d try the snuffing of
selves and it was at least effective for a few unbroken minutes...
it is far too quiet on flatterdays.
no one flatters a silence or sloughing or snuffing.
none: are pretty – none: are fun.
mirror incidents calmcreate in her so many mixtures of cauldrons of
ravens of hair for the crane. she had any intention to fulfill duties
of endeavours, duties of flavours, duties of charges to acquire. a
record of canada can only play in one kind of xylophone – a
xxxylophone. queen flea of all things cradle reenactments, she would
rock. she sapped the trees of cranberry juice, intending to divvy it to her
beloved and herself, only to find what could have been permanency was
only currency. no turning of high tides to snow; no bellowing of wind
from below, beloved. she saw a north star eat a south paw and she saw
them both explode. when we prayed on the moon, she saw a shooting star
– a falling ball of gas and waste and atmospheric juices suckling at
the sky’s breast. she don’t bely the truth in pudding or passing. a
veiled usurping to say the sneeze. when she walks, mennonite women
look at her... dress envy?
she was not counting on brilliance to surpass any fling.
lurking in the night bye, she saw freedom in leaves – leaves that
spoke volumes of depths of heights of semblances of greens. she said,
“hey leaves. you scurred me.” kind of like me, when the urghly spider
launched himself out the grass at my crotch – freaked freaked freaked.
she hadn’t said so much to any man, woman, or child in eight days, but
there she was: spilling and squandering her billage to a quandery of
sneezy snooty leaves: silent fools. she trusted them with something...
something pieced by pieced by pieced outside of her selves. she laid
it out, laid it OUT like some sort of verbal lark: she spat, she
soaked, she surpassed, she ensued, she SPOKE. like this, like this she
spoke: “i’ve never laughed for hippie long periods of time without
sensing so much depression after (bipolar?); never spoken my soul too
loudly for fear of men (i eeeeeee); never harmed myself for the sake
of harm or release but harmed myself for the sake of
numbingforgettingbeing; being forgiven too is something i’ve never
deservation... i write you off as another brontasaurus flex – i know
it’s not something too many would write another off as. it’s my way of
giving up; it’s my way of knowing i may always be alone...” it went on
and for on... hours spat past her, hours hocked balls of saliva and
mucous by her face, nothing smited her, nothing spited her, nothing
STOPPED her. she was unstooped, unstopped, unselvish in her speak. all
selves and no selves. that is how she behaved.
Faith Mingus: crackle jack - he had bone spurs, cysts, and a spinal atrophy.
it made him crackle and pop when he walked and still louder when he'd trot.
jack lived in a box; a little scary sometimes but mostly good for laughs.
inside his heart, he always kept a good word so he could pull
it out, unwrap it like a stale fortune cookie, and dazzle a youngster.
i am jack And the kid, among other sings
you can find me in a coffee shop, at firstname.lastname@example.org,
or at my blog: xanga.com/faithmingus