13 x 17: Still Point of the Moving World
For SPNaPo, for the prompt "Sam through Dean's eyes", I thought about Sam crashed over a book. Before the Post-its. Or maybe another time.
Call you geekboy. Don't know what else to call you when you're held up by the skin of a grimoire. Sleepin'. Last time you ate three beers and a Jiffyburger ago. Days or weeks or years.You had strawberry jam on your face. Maybe ten. It was Halloween. You tipped from handlebars into road dust. Didn't cry. The clouds were yellow like dogs, like eyes; almost like a cartoon, those.The eyes I mean, 'cause you know how to use 'em. Beggin' like weather. Like a prayer. Heavy--when I was a kid and you were a kid and the fire lit behind and we got born, again. Years flew. I floored it. You laughed. We were brothers again and it smelled like--sweat, all our hells. All those stories undoing your hair in the windows-down; fever-sweat, kid-breath, ghost-blood. There's a word for that. Ectoplasmic. Like we liquefied. Like we wrote the riverside blues. Like stars and crazy and sweet grief, Poughkeepsie and you. Just the drop the run ordered: home. Stitched-up, patched-up put-back burnt-on. Or off. Skin and your neat hand and the bullet we dug out. Roman candle. Your face when you made me human again, all blood. Or bloodless. Green around the mouth. Proud. Pained. Like in the church. Like in the fire. Like in the field.That box of photos you kept--the damned book and your hand on the wheel; the first time you cupped her carburetor, heart-in-palm. Cold-cocked number-one stone. Backseat blanket. Rough-voiced, nooky-eyed. You're tired. You were. You are. Word to the wise: you want the one you've been to heaven with. Sleepin' there. Your shoulder, the horizon.
title from Chris Whitley
Call you geekboy. Don't know what else to call you when you're held up by the skin of a grimoire. Sleepin'. Last time you ate three beers and a Jiffyburger ago. Days or weeks or years.You had strawberry jam on your face. Maybe ten. It was Halloween. You tipped from handlebars into road dust. Didn't cry. The clouds were yellow like dogs, like eyes; almost like a cartoon, those.The eyes I mean, 'cause you know how to use 'em. Beggin' like weather. Like a prayer. Heavy--when I was a kid and you were a kid and the fire lit behind and we got born, again. Years flew. I floored it. You laughed. We were brothers again and it smelled like--sweat, all our hells. All those stories undoing your hair in the windows-down; fever-sweat, kid-breath, ghost-blood. There's a word for that. Ectoplasmic. Like we liquefied. Like we wrote the riverside blues. Like stars and crazy and sweet grief, Poughkeepsie and you. Just the drop the run ordered: home. Stitched-up, patched-up put-back burnt-on. Or off. Skin and your neat hand and the bullet we dug out. Roman candle. Your face when you made me human again, all blood. Or bloodless. Green around the mouth. Proud. Pained. Like in the church. Like in the fire. Like in the field.That box of photos you kept--the damned book and your hand on the wheel; the first time you cupped her carburetor, heart-in-palm. Cold-cocked number-one stone. Backseat blanket. Rough-voiced, nooky-eyed. You're tired. You were. You are. Word to the wise: you want the one you've been to heaven with. Sleepin' there. Your shoulder, the horizon.
title from Chris Whitley