Prose Poem -- He Rolled Seven April 17,23,24,25

APRIL 17, 2010 12:33PM
He Rolled Seven
RATE: 3

Jesus, she could dance, her back was strong for sure when she stopped suddenly and did not lurch nor airily sway or list --- only raising her arms when she bowed, a strong, dainty half- naked hinge, a folded black cloth:

men whistling like jungle birds smashing their hands and yellllllllllllllliiiig hooting stomping, drunkards up jumping crazed dodos with gin blotched silk ties, yodeling big-eyed through fly-crapped glasses.

a heavy door rolls north disruptive an umpire X's his arms yet pushed by a button black-ants a snowman's left eye fled as rippled crows sweat alerts across metal fields cold torso hands fancied up slick for the race soft with words earthworks numbers he sees the day its weight accelerated animal of night motorcycle man down when tulips survived he'd wished them people you'd heard of ravaged coyotes copulated mere jagged horehounds cubs with nails sticking down a slammed door Cinderella's stiletto heel o day 5' 4" bright steamed pink dolled up tartan pants

Quietus: he'd restlessly tauted her with his lips so she'd dreamroll eyes partly shut --- stinging from the night and day --- the light of the Piranha tank incessant bubbles poruspinkish coral filled the corner next to the closet door slid open.

On the fish tank glass a test pattern: an encircled Indian chief fuzzy and dim, red, grey, his profile on the television watching the fish sleeplessly. The sheets made fancy smelling of rain. Outside an open window the morning was dead. As a sheer curtain moved ghost-like before white-silver moonlight, moving ever so much as air invisibly shimmered over and up the wall swirling he imagined, gently as he smoothed her black hair. Her cheek and jaw, his thumb motionless beneath her lips. Jesus, she could dance.

***

That is some dancing.

Damon E Walters
APRIL 18, 2010 11:54 AM
Thanks, Dan. Thought I would have more readers today.
It is not as though I'm playing Proud Mary in a wedding band or anything.
Mmmm draft beer, not students.

J.P. Hart
APRIL 18, 2010 12:55 PM
"Cinderella's stilletto heel's" this was beautiful JP, I truly loved reading this story.

Poppi Iceland
APRIL 24, 2010 10:27 PM
Sorry, held up in traffic. Worth it, tho, just to see her eyes dreamroll and suggest the rest.

Chicken Mãâàn
MAY 23, 201

APRIL 23, 2010 4:43AM
He Rolled Seven Chapter 1, pt 2
RATE: 2
Phone rings to the Magnificent Seven as he flossed over the fish tank snagging mauve meat out from molars still barefoot, the phone sounding from the other room, and now the woman sitting upright, stretched, arms overhead yawning, saying, "Coffee?" As he strung the meat speck across the Piranha tank, like a tightrope, Buddy, the so-called alpha male fish leaped out and splat on the oak floor: panicked--- seeming to flip and dance on its treacherous mouth and then pathetically wither nearing exhaustion until L cupped the evil toothed, born mad fish, deftly tossing it high and splashing it right-centered back into the water.

Chaotically the tank roiled.

Naked, L and Lola in ballerina leather flats, watched the black silver female rush and scan the surface zipping back and forth, diving down into the sand-littered murk, apparently fixated on the moist crumb clung to the floss. It nearly walked on its fanning tail, angry as her large mate crazily swirled up and down, back and forth shooting through the tank mesmerized and biting at his reflection.

Lola ignited Bloomberg and closed the window standing bare before it, the sun a sharp amber eye at the end of the dawn street while L found his robe and ringing phone. Lola muted the televisions while she towelled the floor.

Then she came back into the bedroom pinching tuna from an envelope, transfixed with the manic Piranhas, how fast and wickedly aggressive. L already spoke and listened on the phone. The green clock numbers tricked over to 4:43 when she snapped off the Brit and found Breaking News.

"L? L are you on this?"

"Okay I'm on with Bad Cat in Boca and he thinks it's a Def Con he said he thinks everything is up somebody launched he wants me to pound the dollar with everything!" L replied shivering. He tied his robe standing over his screens.

On the televisions you could see the President's helicopter ascend .

L had no connectivity, only an oblique message from Internet Explorer.

He rang Bad Cat back and got a mechanized voice. He turned his computers off at the orange circuit breaker without methodically shutting down the screens and then setup several phones and Blackberries on charging devices. He lined his mouth in a dry, concerted smile, peering directly at his pupils, widening his eyes.

He stood in the steam shaving, smearing clean the mirror with his palm, frequently, fighting to recognize his face. He watched Lola's nakedness within the shower.

White lather over much of his face, he walked back to the bedroom where the fish tank was settled, its water level and calm, Buddy and Betty bumping noses, staring, then stretching their jaws.

A national defense crawl line blurbed an obnoxious horn-like sound, but the words were fractured into minuscule indecipherable tiles, caught flickering at the corner of the television.

L heard the shrieking jumble of wild dogs. And looking down toward the street he thought he heard the pop, pop-popping of small arms fire. Several black and white police vans drove slowly, mysteriously by, creeping along the street completely left to right as though sneaking past without lights.

***

APRIL 24, 2010 7:22AM
He Rolled Seven Chapter 1 pt ii 1/2
RATE: 1
The hunchback shortwave operator pounded the crook of his cane on the door. Through the peephole, Lola could not see anyone and reached up to the top shelf of the closet rummaging for the Colt replica in its Wedgwood blue box where it had laid since L bought her into the apartment.

The Colt's box slipped from her hand BANG! it hit the floor blowing through the sidewall of its antiqued storage case ricocheting off a heavy metal milk can painted with mermaids from Lola's other life, and grazed through her kimono thigh height, striking the ash shovel and then the street side brick wall, at once careening like a slow motion insect dead eye, smack dab through the peephole: KA-PING.

"It's me Jorge are you okay? From upstairs! Was that a gun? It's me Jorge. A North Korean frigate blew up the North Pole---where's L? There's riots all over the East Coast!" urgently he rapped, rapped the door. L ran into the room wearing a safari shirt and high over the calf dress socks, his face tense, he held Lola by her shoulders then unlatched the deadbolt, somehow looking down the hallway from the chained door toward the elevator before sensing Jorge was alone, fully opening the door and letting the elbow height man in.

"We should check the lobby --- did Bennie show up last night?"

"I was down there already and Bennie's standing guard with a 12 gauge --- he's wrapped a chain around handles n he's thrown his desk into the revolving door. I think the garage entrance is on digital only I don't know if it's key-locked...I don't know about the south end. I don't know if we should wake up the building or what the hell --- sounded like the end of the world."

Jorge's words began to whimper and he struggled for air. He pumped his asthma inhaler. Tears welled his eyes and he looked up at Lola and L as he collapsed and sat down crying like a child, sobbing, losing his breath, gasping, alternating his sobs with his medicine. Lola helped Jorge up and to the feinting couch.

L found his army green carpenter pants, checked the five rounds in the Colt and, after quickly pointing out the safety on the Mauser to Lola, also arming Jorge with a flair pistol, from the tackle box, L left them in the apartment and walked up and down all seventeen stair flights, took the elevator from the lobby back to seven, somewhat assured that at least for now Lola and whoever else showed up would be safe, warm, and dry for the time being.

He then helped Jorge up the stairs to seventeen and they shared a softball sized orange listening to the sporadic squawk of shortwave news.

L looked through a telescope through trees, tempted to look right at the sun.

Jorge sat at the piano, used his inhaler, and then the little hunchback began playing, Cabaret.

Chapter Three

...allow me to acknowledge that Richard Brautigan first used the phrase "...warm, safe and dry." Sometime ago. So it goes, carpe diem, another tank of petro....tippycanoe and long necked geese....
Give me the joints where it's always New Years Eve, let me stay until....

J.P. Hart
APRIL 25, 2010 06:21 AM
I gather the strategic talks with Kim Jong-il have broken down. Our fault, no doubt.

Chicken Mãâàn
MAY 23, 201

iii-chapter

APRIL 25, 2010 8:34AM
He Rolled Seven Chapter One iii
RATE: 2
L viewed the town, evermore ordinary, such a wasteland, more than you still imagine.

Outside the park's spring trees he saw a jangled line of jokers wrapped around Lenny's, in co0l weather garb, miniature from his vantage as glass figurines on a Z Gauge railroad .... And just then an F16 and then another and another roared over, through and low, nearly grazing the fat buds of the tree tops.

He stood back from the telescope --- Jorge had stopped playing and held his somewhat pointed ears, grimaced --- and yet another bright silver fighter jet flew past low, angling up, away up, rising toward the top edge of the fireball sunrise.

Jorge bounced from the piano bench and stood on a mahogany box next to the telescope and saw a of thousand egrets and crows, a wedge-like panorama that had lifted flight as the jets out of nowhere disappeared quicker than they appeared, the fighter planes vanishing with an echoed, tumultuous wafting thunder that rattled everything and stunned right through L.

Jorge began cussing then stuck his index finger in his right ear --- a type of self-hypnosis to socialise his turret syndrome? L wondered.

The glint of sunlight and what must have been sonic booms froze the moment, the sound wavering the huge window.

And the shortwave radio kept going off: ' Vagabond One...Vagabond One...come in come in ....' Jorge, striding like Groucho Marx, nestled in an huge burgundy custom Baco-Lounger before an incredibly complex configuration of variously sized screens, a circular microphone with a lightening bolt on it, several lit thick candles in small pots of marigolds, all afire, a live closed circuit screen matrix simulcasting what looked to be every nook and cranny of the building, incongruously, a black and white gold-framed 9"x12" photo of the Yalta Conference with actual writing that may have been autographs, and a semi-nude of Lola, in yellow cotton short-shorts, her red lips pouted beneath a sequined Uncle Sam's Hat, her cheroot cigarillo, and the other hand pointing right at-cha.

______

***

A dazzling display of wordplay and twists of form - I put near pulled my groin reading this!

Damon E Walters
APRIL 25, 2010 01:08 PM
Your admission of a primal reflex is more tha even Somerset Maugham could expect.

J.P. Hart
APRIL 25, 2010 04:30 PM
It's time. I gotta ask ya. How much time do you spend with these? It's evident you've conceptualized this story line, something I don't see in what appear to be your more spontaneous pieces. I imagine the actual writing is still pretty much stream of conscious, but it's the planning that fascinates me. These characters are coming to life out of what at first seems a whimsical, random imagination, but something is happening here and I don't quite know what it is, do I, Mr. Hart?

It's time. I gotta ask ya. How much time do you spend with these? It's evident you've conceptualized this story line, something I don't see in what appear to be your more spontaneous pieces. I imagine the actual writing is still pretty much stream of conscious, but it's the planning that fascinates me. These characters are coming to life out of what at first seems a whimsical, random imagination, but something is happening here and I don't quite know what it is, do I, Mr. Hart?

Chicken Mãâàn
MAY

Views: 37

Comment by J.P. Hart on February 28, 2019 at 11:31pm

..another night it's gonna be...Don't be re-reading Raymond Federman...

Double or Nothing
{here's a back~cover~teaser}

'Federman takes the novel to the point of obsessive, ultimate reflexiveness--and against all odds of the logic of fiction, Double or Nothing works like a charm...Somehow, in this furious and comic scheme, every distraction is an enrichment, and the processors of choice--played with infinite fancifulness upon the page--are the lovely geometry of personal assertion. Typography becomes typology; our hero becomes a citizen.'

Marcus Klein

Copyright 1971 by Raymond Federman
First Edition
Published by
The Swallow Press Incorporated
1139 South Wabash Avenue
Sweethome, Illinois 60605
ISBN 0-8040-0543-5
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER 71-171875

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