Tuesday, December 02, 2008

Wilhelm Was A Friend Of Mine; You Are No Wilhelm

Robert, as a medial child, dressed in his brother's trickle-down raiment. By game he would carry maculate coins and gift the pristine to sea level doyen. His hand to furrow the earth and leave them to soil beneath city bridges. His hand to scratch marks on home-made tissue pieces. Nature's oblong trajectory confounded him often, as he would greet each risen morning as it were the Wolfmother, terrified of it's humble divinity. Robert's vigour carried the greengrocer's promise and delivered the baker's dozen, preferring to bite once than leave them forever shy.

A price was tallied against his living, sent to province and kept in quarters. His chest was tight after steep stair climbs, and doubly so after prescription fruit and pint water vessels. He never sank but filled each note with a roomful of ears, ten individual pairs like sink-holes to empty treasure chests. Robert was his mothers gleam, a nested trove to catch summer breeze, to marvel over with steamed broccoli soup. He left her with nothing but ambitions whispered into pillow cases to tie to a tree or drown in a well. The benefit of wince and smile, of dhoti and whetstone is a child of voice and substance, unbound to scream.

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