Most Beautiful Apes
riley dog |
half-baked cookies in the oven...fruitcakes on the street... |
The ExpulsionAdam was happy--now he had someone to blame
for everything--shipwrecks, Troy,
the gray face in the mirror.Eve was happy: now he would always need her.
She walked on boldly, swaying her beautiful hips.The serpent admired his emerald coat,
the Angel burst into flames
(he'd never approved of them, and he was right).Even God was secretly pleased: Let
History Begin!The dog had no regrets, trotting by Adam's side
self-importantly, glad to be ridof the lion, the toad, the basilisk, the white-footed mouse,
who were alse happy and forgot their names immediately.Only the Tree of Knowledge stood forlorn,
its small hard bitter crab applesglinting high up, in a twilight of black leaves:
how pleasant it had been, how unexpectedto have been, however briefly,
the center of attention.
The clocks of his house there are set at 4pm, the time he met his wife Pilar del Rio, a Spanish journalist 30 years his junior who he married in 1998.
Mutualism
‘You cannot move the rook like that,’
I told her as she waved her arms.She took it as an omen, but I said ‘let it
alone. From what I've seen, these thingswill up and fly off on their own.’
‘You cannot write a book like that,’
she told me as I filled the lines.She took away my lucky pen, then scribbled
out my eyes. I think some ink got in my head,it pours out when I sigh.
Find out what it's like to get jizzed on for a living. Fuck the pyramid, fuck j-school, fuck writing for a living. Fuck your computer, fuck your rent, fuck whatever your parents said. Go and live. Go be in the world. Go push yourself until you cry and then go back for more and then write about it. Because that's what real writers do. They don't just write about it. They live it. And then, if you're lucky, you can find out what it's like to lose everything, how to get the guy to show you the AK-47 that you know he has hidden in his closet, or joke with a soldier about giving a stripper the implant in his head that's stretching his burned skin because he drove over an IED in Iraq after he's done with it. Why? Because then you can die knowing that whatever you did, or whatever you wrote, hey, at least you weren't a fucking coward like all those lame-asses that went to j-school, wrote shit copy for lame newspapers, and thought they were really pushing it because they did an email interview with Sasha Grey. Conclusion: Get out of here, kid.You're welcome.Love, Susannah
Family Therapist living
in the Northern Rockies.
Blogging as Riley Dog
since 1999.
Reading:
And Then
C-Monster
Erasing
Consumptive
In a Dark Time
La Linguisterie
Look Into My Owl
Odd Citrus
Radish King
Susannah Breslin
Wood s Lot
All images and writings
are copyright of their
respective owners.
day draw near
another one
do what you can
we are an accident that thinks
listen: there's a hell
of a good universe
next door; let's go
