Deaf to the Super Heat: an exquisite corpse

Here’s the exquisite corpse from last week’s A Rrose in a Prose literary salon. We had a large group this time, and a wordy one–yet some people had pretty bad handwriting, so about 5% of the below is my best guess rather than the literal intention of the authors involved. I didn’t get a name-check yet, but Jordan Schwartz of We Got P0wer! was one of the folks who started us off, and I think I detect the hands of Ron Garmon and Bloody Death Skull somewhere in the mix.

 

Deaf to the Super Heat

 

Ah shit.

 

The super moon will attack again tonight.

The cyclists have blockaded Wilshire Blvd.

Facebook overflows with dudes wanting work or talking about work.

 

Fortunately I found a hot cup of coffee on a hot day. I can’t stand the heat, and who wants hot coffee?

 

Tomorrow—it’s always tomorrow—I’m going to a coffee place with snow and ice, and hats and mittens and slippery places. When I get there, I’m going to go out and walk around.

 

I keep losing all the people I know.

 

One of them is me.

 

The beauty of existence keeps opening

the shadow of the hawk on the desert floor.

 

All of my questions are disappearing.

There’s nobody left to ask,

“What shall I do?”

 

I’ll meditate—think about the origins of things.

 

Speaking of origins, I’m planting seeds in the garden.

We’re growing big boy tomatoes. You know, the big, red juicy ones

are delicious, tasty fruit—so much for that—said she—

 

and on-
ward to

Westwood

we shall go—for fun and excitement.

 

Life is full of surprises—said he—

Surprises such as the joy of a blooming lily.

That white in her face was sheer fear,

The kind of anxiety that is only experienced in crisis.

 

He had no idea how to handle the

complexity of her

emotions. She was

just

ov

er

flow

ing,

 

and on the way home, disappeared down a drain,

down,

down down

twisting and turning

 

and ended up in the ocean,

cleaner than she’d ever been in her life,

which was pretty dirty for the most part:

the air, her body, her thoughts,

everything.

 

Dirty.

Like the bottom of her metaphysical feet: wouldn’t you know, she was well liked by dogs.

 

She was well-liked by you, too—in that deadly moment,

When someone new appears to sparkle in your vision,

And you know you are just fucked.

 

And it’s just as well.

 

You needed a new dimension, anyway,

“Since the old one plainly is doing you little good,”

Jenkins remarked with a faint sneer.

 

“People like you give three dimensions a bad name,”

thought Rinehart as he touched his lips to his friendly,

reliable

crack

pipe,

as close to him as a brother.

 

Then they shared an uncomfortable moment that lasted 17 years.

 

Rinehart’s hand fell off.

 

Jenkins went deaf.

 

Jenkins tried to shake hands to say goodbye, but perceived Rinehart’s lack of hand as a rude handshake snub. Rinehart tried to explain, but Jenkins was deaf,

and couldn’t

understand.

 

 

 

About D. M. Collins

D. M. Collins is a journalist and writer based in Los Angeles.

Posted on July 4, 2013, in A Rrose in a Prose, Exquisite Corpses, Poems and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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