Bornman.
001
He asked her to marry him, and she said no.
He slept in tangled sheets all summer, sweating out a fever of frustration, pain, angst, bitterness, resentment. An open window, thunderstorms coming in waves across his bedroom ceiling, lighting up the darkness every few minutes. The thunder cracking open his skull.
The sweat would cool from the rain and the breeze, crusting there on his body and create the shell that he was, sort of like a worm. Digging farther down into the scab, letting every layer overlap.
The sun would go up and down in circular cycles and his eyes would stare blank or snap shut but then he would dream of her lovely hipbones, her naked flesh, the sound of her groan or the fluttering eyelashes.
Remembering her mouth was the worst, such a pretty mouth that would be all around his skin.
The bedroom eyes, the pink flesh.
Go back to bed, go back to bed. Let a new layer cover him.
The bones of a man, the flesh of a man, it all hurt. Every millimeter and nerve. The knuckles would become red and his lips would turn white.
Oh, dear God, please.
Dirty hair, dirty legs, dirty teeth.
Suddenly the wind picked up, the air got frigid cold, and this man, he got out of that bed.
He shut the window tight, and got in the bathtub. He baptized himself, like John in the river and forgot her face in that water. The scabs and sweat and dirt and pain came off in that water, and he held his breathe for so long under that water, finally coming up for that redeeming breathe, choking on the air, his big eyes wide and set with a plan.
Gasping, his lips turned back to pink.
He shaved off that beard, all the hair on his face. He trimmed the hair behind his ears, and all that hair fell into the sink, washed it away with cold water.
He did not recognize this face. This handsome face was not naïve or innocent like it had been for so long. Twenty five years he walked the earth, and now on the twenty sixth year he would float, just be, sing like a choir of ghostly children, get his feet wet.
He dressed himself in the Sunday best, black silk shirt, the light blue tie, the light brown suit, with the fedora hat to match. The slick black shoes. He looked like heaven, and he smiled at the glass, his breathe quite clean.
He breathed out a sigh of relief.
He packed all that shit he had, the old shit up, they were just clothes.
And then he put it in the car and left the east, he went west.
This is the story of the greatest man who ever lived.
He slept in tangled sheets all summer, sweating out a fever of frustration, pain, angst, bitterness, resentment. An open window, thunderstorms coming in waves across his bedroom ceiling, lighting up the darkness every few minutes. The thunder cracking open his skull.
The sweat would cool from the rain and the breeze, crusting there on his body and create the shell that he was, sort of like a worm. Digging farther down into the scab, letting every layer overlap.
The sun would go up and down in circular cycles and his eyes would stare blank or snap shut but then he would dream of her lovely hipbones, her naked flesh, the sound of her groan or the fluttering eyelashes.
Remembering her mouth was the worst, such a pretty mouth that would be all around his skin.
The bedroom eyes, the pink flesh.
Go back to bed, go back to bed. Let a new layer cover him.
The bones of a man, the flesh of a man, it all hurt. Every millimeter and nerve. The knuckles would become red and his lips would turn white.
Oh, dear God, please.
Dirty hair, dirty legs, dirty teeth.
Suddenly the wind picked up, the air got frigid cold, and this man, he got out of that bed.
He shut the window tight, and got in the bathtub. He baptized himself, like John in the river and forgot her face in that water. The scabs and sweat and dirt and pain came off in that water, and he held his breathe for so long under that water, finally coming up for that redeeming breathe, choking on the air, his big eyes wide and set with a plan.
Gasping, his lips turned back to pink.
He shaved off that beard, all the hair on his face. He trimmed the hair behind his ears, and all that hair fell into the sink, washed it away with cold water.
He did not recognize this face. This handsome face was not naïve or innocent like it had been for so long. Twenty five years he walked the earth, and now on the twenty sixth year he would float, just be, sing like a choir of ghostly children, get his feet wet.
He dressed himself in the Sunday best, black silk shirt, the light blue tie, the light brown suit, with the fedora hat to match. The slick black shoes. He looked like heaven, and he smiled at the glass, his breathe quite clean.
He breathed out a sigh of relief.
He packed all that shit he had, the old shit up, they were just clothes.
And then he put it in the car and left the east, he went west.
This is the story of the greatest man who ever lived.
♠ ♠ ♠
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