oscar’s twentieth chapter: basking.

Sniff a glow here. Whiff a shine there. At least three fingers on each of her hands now reminded her of seashells, the deep salty ocean and the thrill of getting all dressed up, going to a nice restaurant, ordering a bottle of red wine, and then eating a beautifully prepared and presented dinner without using any silver ware. After their individually historic, monumental little hit-and-run, she lay basking in the lustily tossed and desperately twisted linens and wondered—though not as vividly or accurately as some of her more recently attended body parts—Didn’t it seem like his right hand was just a little bit cooler than his left? Or was it just me?

oscar’s nineteenth chapter: but waiting is doing something.

He wrote in his book: “CHAPTER SEVEN: The Love Scene,” and did not write anything else for the next three pages. In fact, he just sat there the rest of the night with the pencil in his hand, ready, hovering ever more pregnantly over the smooth white page, while he stared blankly out the window at the darkly shifting nightscape of tangerine-stained clouds and a stewed prune sky.

Still nothing. Still. Nothing.

here we there we go we two (1975-ish)

Dressing dressy, playing games
Goin on the ritz;
Sitting, staring, starry eyed,
Anywhere we sits.

Changing changes, never brake,
Buzzing down the gut;
Hotly, holding hand in hand,
Making our debut.

Flip a coin into the mud,
Here we there we go we two;
Pinch a flower in the bud,
Here we there we rendezvous;
Behind the trees we piss a flood.
Here we there we whoop-di-do.

Lighting lightly, getting tired,
Putting up the boxes;
Thinking, thanking, teary-eyed,
Folding all the sockses.

Flip a coin into the mud,
Here we there we go we two;
Pinch a flower in the bud,
Here we there we rendezvous;
Behind the trees we piss a flood.
Here we there we whoop-di-do.

Tonight the dark brings on the sorrow;
The sorrow breaks, we sings tomorrow.