Garlic Sack
The Week I Ruined My Shoes
I have been chewing through 3 books.
I use the verb, "chewing," because up until today my progress has recalled memories of sore jaws
on account of my mom's lifeless attempts at pork chops.
But with nothing else to do this afternoon, I swallowed book # 3 like a glass of chilled,
post-coital orange juice.
I still have around 10 pages left to consume (devour, ingest, etc), however. This girl walked
in front of my table and I looked up, thereby breaking the spell that bound my attention to the narrative.
She dragged her wet boots over to a dim corner table that I had forgotten about and started to chatter in a single syllable language. A sullen male voice responded, and triggered an exchange
that sounded like two drunk frogs complaining about the scant availability of lily pads on the surface of the swamp water. Then, for a minute or so, I thought they were arguing. I fully broke away from the book to devote my ears to eavesdropping.
I like to listen to couple's verbally duking it out in the public arena, even when I can't understand them. It reminds me of relationships past; myself positioned on one side of a ghost white
chalk line, pulling on a taut rope for what, at the time, seemed like eternity.
I became bored with the frog dialogue because it lacked that delicious friction that
accompanies the daintiest of couple arguments. I shut the book and packed my things and
headed out the door that refuses to open lest one treat it like a stubborn ox who is blocking the singular exit of a collapsing coal mine. I felt little anger at having been pried from my familiar post, and sped towards the Biggest Building, hood pulled over an unwashed head swimming with poetry. Up to the 3rd floor - "I think that friend of (K)'s works up here."
A proper broad if there ever was one, but she looks like a worried cartoon animal so I don't mind seeing her face around.
Expiring cellphone indicates the approaching start time of what feels like the umpteenth
human nutrition class. So I'm over there in an instant (Room 3050), and I'm stuck sitting next to
this girl who is obsessed with fitness, as if modern life is slow-going and void of unnecessary toil. And she's hyper-organized to the point where I wouldn't be surprised to find out that she often counts her asshole hairs. I can imagine her breathing a sigh of relief:
"Good they're all still there."
I had a class with her before and when I saw her in the hall I was at least hoping that I could get a piece of gum out of her. Right now I feel as if my mouth is akin to a cavern used to ripen some elegant, albeit putrid as fuck cheese wheel.
She's lost in digital ritual, and no gum is offered. I'm distracted at this point,
caught in the usual fresh semester din. A whole lotta digits flying around, ricocheting off of the banana cream pie walls and beige fluorescent light covers.
"Are you taking 352?," "I still need to get into 280, but everything is closed."
I can never remember what number goes with what banal course title.
I don't know how they do it.
Anger starts to build in the hollow cavern(s) of my gut, despite the fact that I opened up my heart chakra while waiting for the bus (#191) to come and ferry me to school this morning.
There was definitely something to that, I mean..I felt like I was full of a pulsing warmth.
Maybe it was the warm stuff that attracted this afternoon's unusual friendliness.
When using the computer earlier, I found myself talking with a complete stranger; our exchange was largely composed of jokes, as if we had been close friends for many years. He reminded me of this Mexican poetry student I used to know...a bit more square, however, in his build and attire.
But there are no jokes or mystical happenings now, not when discussing the science of digestion, absorption, etc. The professor's straight face is selling the class on lab meat, but not me (of course)! I'm half-listening with my mind stuck in a go-nowhere doodle. And then Frankenfood morphs into cellular biology, and no one bothers taking notes because we've all heard it before. We know what the cell is, it's a diagram and a definition. And when you open it up, it contains a collection of diagrams and definitions attributed to organelles and some of those have components with diagrams and definitions. And we're all aware. We are all conscious of the fact that each one of us is made out of these diagrams and definitions, and so we think of ourselves like filing cabinets.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Dreamt I was at a Suffocation concert last night..
Sketching the turnout, typical
fat burrito hounds forming hemorrhoid piles
emitting baritone chatter and peppery
clouds of perspiration bearing the distinct emblems of testosterone.
Suffocation took the stage in a tender
and unanticipated manner, started playing some
sort of psychedelic lounge music.
It wasn't a surprise to anyone but myself, however.
Throng quavered in unison like a cluster of cattails
teased by a tepid swamp breeze.
I stood pacific, maybe a little disappointed.
Some old fucker, sporting a Canadian tuxedo
clambered up on stage and ordered the band to stop.
There was some kind of technical mishap involving microphones and a CD
containing backing tracks
(wait - Suffocation uses backing tracks?)
(has Frank Mullen been lip-syncing this whole time?)
There was a dance club one room over.
I could feel its throbbing heart beat kneading my guts,
and the word passing down from the platform had it that the venue's weathered
fuses couldn't bear the weight of both Suffocation and the DJ.
As this knowledge became absorbed, the crowd let out
a commonplace howl of displeasure.
I was reminded of a collapsible tent -
fighting with a collapsible tent, the morning after camping,
folding it up, with knees and elbows struggling to eradicate
the last few pockets of air,
ears receiving a few ounces
of non-compliant tent whine.
The disappointed mob began to trickle out the exit,
seeing Suffocation abandon stage.
Geoff's brother materialized on the stairwell to my left,
and I immediately began to shuffle
towards him, adjusting a sagging belt in order to appear
slick, and consider myself put together.
Without the slightest whisper, we walked
into a hotel suite. The television cast a police
blue glow towards the doorway.
He invited me to play video games, and I sat down,
grabbed a controller and played for so damn long
that I slept straight through my alarm,
waking up at 8 o' clock.
I have been chewing through 3 books.
I use the verb, "chewing," because up until today my progress has recalled memories of sore jaws
on account of my mom's lifeless attempts at pork chops.
But with nothing else to do this afternoon, I swallowed book # 3 like a glass of chilled,
post-coital orange juice.
I still have around 10 pages left to consume (devour, ingest, etc), however. This girl walked
in front of my table and I looked up, thereby breaking the spell that bound my attention to the narrative.
She dragged her wet boots over to a dim corner table that I had forgotten about and started to chatter in a single syllable language. A sullen male voice responded, and triggered an exchange
that sounded like two drunk frogs complaining about the scant availability of lily pads on the surface of the swamp water. Then, for a minute or so, I thought they were arguing. I fully broke away from the book to devote my ears to eavesdropping.
I like to listen to couple's verbally duking it out in the public arena, even when I can't understand them. It reminds me of relationships past; myself positioned on one side of a ghost white
chalk line, pulling on a taut rope for what, at the time, seemed like eternity.
I became bored with the frog dialogue because it lacked that delicious friction that
accompanies the daintiest of couple arguments. I shut the book and packed my things and
headed out the door that refuses to open lest one treat it like a stubborn ox who is blocking the singular exit of a collapsing coal mine. I felt little anger at having been pried from my familiar post, and sped towards the Biggest Building, hood pulled over an unwashed head swimming with poetry. Up to the 3rd floor - "I think that friend of (K)'s works up here."
A proper broad if there ever was one, but she looks like a worried cartoon animal so I don't mind seeing her face around.
Expiring cellphone indicates the approaching start time of what feels like the umpteenth
human nutrition class. So I'm over there in an instant (Room 3050), and I'm stuck sitting next to
this girl who is obsessed with fitness, as if modern life is slow-going and void of unnecessary toil. And she's hyper-organized to the point where I wouldn't be surprised to find out that she often counts her asshole hairs. I can imagine her breathing a sigh of relief:
"Good they're all still there."
I had a class with her before and when I saw her in the hall I was at least hoping that I could get a piece of gum out of her. Right now I feel as if my mouth is akin to a cavern used to ripen some elegant, albeit putrid as fuck cheese wheel.
She's lost in digital ritual, and no gum is offered. I'm distracted at this point,
caught in the usual fresh semester din. A whole lotta digits flying around, ricocheting off of the banana cream pie walls and beige fluorescent light covers.
"Are you taking 352?," "I still need to get into 280, but everything is closed."
I can never remember what number goes with what banal course title.
I don't know how they do it.
Anger starts to build in the hollow cavern(s) of my gut, despite the fact that I opened up my heart chakra while waiting for the bus (#191) to come and ferry me to school this morning.
There was definitely something to that, I mean..I felt like I was full of a pulsing warmth.
Maybe it was the warm stuff that attracted this afternoon's unusual friendliness.
When using the computer earlier, I found myself talking with a complete stranger; our exchange was largely composed of jokes, as if we had been close friends for many years. He reminded me of this Mexican poetry student I used to know...a bit more square, however, in his build and attire.
But there are no jokes or mystical happenings now, not when discussing the science of digestion, absorption, etc. The professor's straight face is selling the class on lab meat, but not me (of course)! I'm half-listening with my mind stuck in a go-nowhere doodle. And then Frankenfood morphs into cellular biology, and no one bothers taking notes because we've all heard it before. We know what the cell is, it's a diagram and a definition. And when you open it up, it contains a collection of diagrams and definitions attributed to organelles and some of those have components with diagrams and definitions. And we're all aware. We are all conscious of the fact that each one of us is made out of these diagrams and definitions, and so we think of ourselves like filing cabinets.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Dreamt I was at a Suffocation concert last night..
Sketching the turnout, typical
fat burrito hounds forming hemorrhoid piles
emitting baritone chatter and peppery
clouds of perspiration bearing the distinct emblems of testosterone.
Suffocation took the stage in a tender
and unanticipated manner, started playing some
sort of psychedelic lounge music.
It wasn't a surprise to anyone but myself, however.
Throng quavered in unison like a cluster of cattails
teased by a tepid swamp breeze.
I stood pacific, maybe a little disappointed.
Some old fucker, sporting a Canadian tuxedo
clambered up on stage and ordered the band to stop.
There was some kind of technical mishap involving microphones and a CD
containing backing tracks
(wait - Suffocation uses backing tracks?)
(has Frank Mullen been lip-syncing this whole time?)
There was a dance club one room over.
I could feel its throbbing heart beat kneading my guts,
and the word passing down from the platform had it that the venue's weathered
fuses couldn't bear the weight of both Suffocation and the DJ.
As this knowledge became absorbed, the crowd let out
a commonplace howl of displeasure.
I was reminded of a collapsible tent -
fighting with a collapsible tent, the morning after camping,
folding it up, with knees and elbows struggling to eradicate
the last few pockets of air,
ears receiving a few ounces
of non-compliant tent whine.
The disappointed mob began to trickle out the exit,
seeing Suffocation abandon stage.
Geoff's brother materialized on the stairwell to my left,
and I immediately began to shuffle
towards him, adjusting a sagging belt in order to appear
slick, and consider myself put together.
Without the slightest whisper, we walked
into a hotel suite. The television cast a police
blue glow towards the doorway.
He invited me to play video games, and I sat down,
grabbed a controller and played for so damn long
that I slept straight through my alarm,
waking up at 8 o' clock.