What The Other One Heard by Jake David

Celebration stands on trial beneath amphetamine typewriters off their knockers, off their shirts. Off their pants. Peeled onion ring marriage jeans that rehearse which period is destined down the path to be one one, yet lept. Free and soon. Not too soon; too soon is sooner than soon enough allows it being fool’s pace. The shattering of time, when behind the endocrines of clocks succeeding to be the end of a world in the eyes of their petticoat nurse. Just a bystander, really. Neither of them pay the nurse any mind.

They’d in their first eye’s windows watch each other’s road paths chewing the other one’s hours, dwindling. I remember it as a cross-dressing veil without an alibi or excuse about where it was that night, sacrificing meaning to a higher bank god or something or other.

Bedsheets tainted by mere attraction of emancipated infatuation—not in any comprehensible in the eys of either of our parties, mind you—in the eyes of a slip of a tongue. One of their weekly phone conversations provided the necessary morality’s convictions to base upon judgment’s distance a marriage of disorder. Of conduct. Of irresolute wandering in the path of escape. Reason’s cause for both parties to swallow barrels of barley, wheat, and forgotten times of Now.

Buried consequential excitement in the backyard vignettes of depression, of similarity. iI their first eye’s windows compete against staggering circus curtains, which try hard to unveil secret mattresses the other one spends time cohort inside — when the other isn’t looking. It’s natural. Happens. A lot, from what the other one hears about, weeks later after the fact. Telephone jimber-jamber. Remembering last week’s nurse who pissed in the wind in order to keep her job, her job. Hired by him. Her job. Taking care of her job.

Unlike his incorrigibility, the woman side of the pants had boundaries. Lengths. Limitations. Strength. Incantations. When he teletexted her, she let it ring five times. No more no less. Knowing instinctively the importance of repainting the crumbling wall around her moral convictions, somehow slipping into somewhere hidden every Saturday night. Not content with the content of a conversation with a ring, he tries again. Agai. Aga. Ag. Gagagoogoo. Flubbabib, wah. Nobody’s ever taught him how to deal with being broken off, and now he’s gonna have to find a new muse to get juiced in. Gaga. Else life gets real hard to define. Googoo. Talk about. Ga. Getting by. Goo. Another day gone, ga, another night, go, out.

© 2011 Jake David

Jake David is a Native American writer living on the Can-Am border, outside Cornwall, ON, and Massena, NY. His work has appeared in The Battered Suitcase, IS&T, and Seahorse Rodeo Folk Review.

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