i miss things because i wear headphones all the time
like the way the yellow covers on the telephone pole
guide wires, (meant to keep kids from skinning their foreheads?)
whistle in the wind.

someone drew a giant penis
in the snow on a driveway
which turned it into
a giant vagina.

but there were no footprints around it.
how is that possible?

I am bad at putting actual sentences together in a way thats not... ummmm formulaic? or systematic? or sterile? I have failed at writing a few novels. ended up with hundreds of pages of words describing an ok story in a shitty way. i have been working on a short story as an exercise in finding a voice thats worth reading. The idea came out of a conversation with a friend. i finally figured out where this story should go. I pretty much need to re write the whole thing since this is a first written rough draft but i am pretty happy with the general direction and feel so far. here is the beginning:

--

The field we sat in to enjoy our green tea, which was served in rather small porcelain tea cups, is attached to the back gardens and lawns of two houses. Ours and our neighbors. The far garden walls provide a near complete barrier between the houses and long grass field. The only breaks in the barriers are the one leading in to our garden and one leading to our neighbors. The sun has just set and the tea is still steaming. The old yellowed tea set nearly glows white in contrast to the black curved wrought iron table. Its legs so intertwined and twisted that in the dim light it seems it has grown from the earth and is relative to the grass it sits in.

The moon, a few days shy of full, holds its place low in the sky just above the grey tree tops swaying and clacking leavelessly in the inaudible breeze. The field, shaped in a horse shoe, holds its ground sturdily and unfenced against the tall trees.

The forest is home to the most typical yet faceless and abundant wildlife. The owls sit in the trees at nite turning their heads in what seems to be a complete circle. If one spots the owl in prey, watching for faceless moles and mice, one would not be able to tell the front of the owls head from the back, not able to tell which direction the owl may fly to grab which faceless mole or mouse with pinpoint accuracy in its lethal talons, for the face of the owl, like the faces of all the animals are not actually faces. They are fur. Or soft down like feathers, nose skin with no holes, ears shaped as ears yet smoothed over in a perfect arc where sound should enter reflecting the waves to ineffective uselessness. Eyes just concave enough to cast shadows negating any light that might have proved effective if there was anything there to process it.

There we sat, staring into the evening, me in the wrought iron chair and **** in the grass braiding the hair of her porcelain headed faceless doll. The doll is clothed nearly the same as ****, in a plain grey dress and laced bodice stiffened with whale bone. Her hands working carefully and slowly with the three divisions of real human doll hair, one in the left hand, two in the right, replacing the middle row with the left then the new middle with the right, switching hands holding multiple rows of hair over and over as the braid slowly grew.

--


also?

these tired typed words
out of eyes, really,
not mouths or fingers
eyes really
just eyes