17 November 2010

11/17

capacity for self-reliance
mannish woman
light-heartedness
dangerous skies
puzzle-solver
became a spot
kink and curl
conjures
but gently,
city intensely

The god of hate conjures dangerous skies above anything he sees as good, as joyous, as beautiful or satisfying in any way whatsoever. These are to be detested, for the god of hate knows only rejection, only discrimination, only the painful power of turning away. Only time, miserable truths.

The land under these dangerous skies became a spot on the map of relevance for the first time, for this was White Bird, Idaho, population of 106, a town that referred to itself as a city, and a city intensely focused on the pursuit of anonymity. It needed not be a speck, let alone a spot of any sort on any sort of map.

The mayor of White Bird, Idaho was Karla Gross, a mannish woman of forty-six, mother of five of White Bird's 106, broad-shouldered and intrinsically blessed with the capacity for self-reliance, as well as the ability to entertain the hopes of reliance of 120 other White Birdians. A light-hearted woman by nature, she became a titan in the face of danger, a general in the face of atack, a puzzle-solver in the presence of quandary. The only thing not mannish about Karla Gross, aside from her breasts, was the kink and curl of her tumbling blonde hair, cascading down from her head as a painter would construct a family of shooting stars fighting off gravity.

Karla Gross sat on her porch every evening between the hours of 4:30 and 6 p.m. and watched her children float on tire swings and construct palaces from tree branches. She smoked a pipe, as any self-respecting mannish woman from White Bird, Idaho, population of 106, would. But gently, carefully, softly did she smoke that pipe. Meticulous in the creation of her smoke, shapely and pregnant clouds of grey rising to meet was was quickly becoming a dangerous sky.

Where the greys of the dangerous sky met the face of the barren land, a specter upon a horse bolted into view, peeling away with no stop in sight, as if stop were a figment of life's imagination.

Karla Gross squinted to the horizon as the god of hate laughed to himself.

No comments:

Post a Comment