Luke J. Holt
Beneath The Wobbly Weathervane (fiction narrative)
When you went into the house you thought of animals
ones that cower from machine noises or are startled by gestures beyond their realm of intellect.
raving, dumb beasts, condemned to stagnate and putrefy into shapes without sides that cooled hot to a latel s touch as if beside the waxy stovetop s corner, blanched with an ochre saucer-shaped surface stain perpetrated when a plate of Salisbury steak, corn and mashed potatoes circa dinner of September 5th 1996 was mishandled by a tipsy poker buddy who slipped on a seltzer bottle and jettisoned the rather obtuse serving onto the sad pastel wallpaper which seemed to be a beacon of what particular American chrysalis you were in.
the couch was like a bear who died a healthy bull but kept aging
graying, collecting a coarsely felted frosting of dust and tar and tar related resins. no-one smoked on this floor, but the sofa had surely been places where they had.
you heard busy signals and PBRs cracking like the sound of a machine spitting out a tooth. in the main floor they say there s someone who never leaves, prolly a fatass with a chiropractic injury
sometimes from the moonsoaked window you can see a seated profiled shadow in what appears to be an late 80s model Laz E Boy recliner and, beside it, upon one of those wobbly pull out T.V. with the uselessly shallow indentations for cups entree and sidedish stood like toy soliders a haphazard arsenal of favored hole-out handtools (a 9 inch bong, bag of Jax cheese puffs, two empty and one half full but a week old Coors that also provided an impromptu cesspool for the last 5 packs of USA Golds, a few rouge Keeblers half pulverized, and the conch-shaped upper rim of the ashtray from which tiny, ziggzagged cylinders stuck out like jammed fingers)
the T.V. was the only light. it was loud too, like for a drunk guy, but no-one knew who was in the chair. it was probably a man, with all the shitty snacks and dirty bong. something wholesome and light-hearted and pulselessly staged was usually on, things like America s Funniest home videos or Full House or Letterman or Beavis and Butthead late at night after the dog shit and went to bed on his rope. no-one laughed at these shows, at least not the person in the chair. if one had no intention or successful history of laughing at a program, why then would you spend collective days per month stoically leering at the Tanner girls or scraping powderform cheddar off of your fingers during Raymond? pick a new sitcom or a show more soundly suited to your metamorphic cliffside of a sense of humor.
sometimes a belch, or a gravelly and undertoned but somehow still audible utterance of Jesus Christ once every two hours or so could be heard like a a boiler ignited amidst the canned jangle and BOOMPOWBAANNGG of the locomotive set; this being the most solid evidence of the identity of the Recliner as being Male
still no-one who watched the sad, still foxtrot of a shadowy sitter and a remote control knew how unmentioned and private it was, this linear to-and-from that vectors like a pulse, thus, simulating an understanding between a mothlike brain and a signal that exists to respond. the Payne s Grey mid 90s era remote is rectangular with multi-textured contours and small, square buttons of which the faded but still neon shades of red and purple are reminiscent of that of prophylactic pills or certain designer drugs.
the McRibb is back
every night at around a quarter after four in the morning the dull strobe of the Panasonic 31 inch set finally zips shut, as if through a high pressure vacuum in the wall. the coal-like glow of a bong slider shortly followed by the streetlight colored cherry of a full flavored Basic (dry and robust like grandpa s sweater) soon encores the darkness.
it is unknown whether or not the person sleeps in this chair. he seems to dissolve along with the flailing pale blue swan song of his prime time parade
in the morning folks like the FedEx guy and neighborhood kid who comes to pet Othello say the chair is always empty by morning
no-one ever sees them leave or know where they ultimately sleep
no-one but the kid
he s playing with a chipped wagon wheel noodle
he does nt care that the rug stinks like the floor mat of a gun-nut s Silverado or that a lady with a smelly face comes by once every few months to make sure his didnt trip and lacerate his calf on any sardine cans. there was no notice of the gnarled tapestries now hung according to the angles at which the multiple butt-burns of filter-kills failed and stains of TruMoo and wood varnish that plague various sections in faint umber blotches could be justly concealed. these things were all arranged into something dazzling by his mind s wand. no-one cared who or what was in the chair. the kid didnt either, because that furniture and all that ragged bric-a-brac was in fact the temples of a mind s growth. this slime formed a cocoon as snug as plush to a kid who knows nothing nice and has never had a vinyl apron to yank upon for something nicer
something from beyond this which is still there somewhere beneath the upper floor
under the wobbly weathervane
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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