Who Is Jan Snupij?
Click to read entry viii.
Click to read entry vii.
Click to read entry vi.
v.
In the morning after my grandfather’s passing, my gunnysack is filled with dead ravens. I say good-bye-for-now to my friend Skinless Paul and I set out with my stolen walking stick. Borrowed? I can barely borrow from the living. A little shorter than me and gnarled, something organic worn smooth apiece at shoulder level.
Through the back roads and hills. All I ask is a road and continuous silence, save for the incidental company of passing travelers. Not that of the businessmen trapped in their little wheeled boxes snarling the turnpike with traffic. They talk to their watches. Or of the homeless. They sniff the breeze and are always in heat, gouging holes in the dirt to fuck.
Off the main thoroughfares, which are impassible, others like me are traveling with their gunnysacks. Some carry corpses for burial. Others write undecipherable words in small books. It gives me fleshy ideas. Our meeting and parting, the skin of cooking milk. Truly genial because tempered with distrust.
Passing these silent tests we speak of the road, but not the journey. It shows on our skin: flesh words. Fellowship is a lie and we know it. The corpses must be carried. Important things unsaid. Miles coiled and coiled into shoes. What's a small godless prayer between two passing bodies? It suffices as currency for tolls on dirt highways.
Click to read entry vii.
Click to read entry vi.
v.
In the morning after my grandfather’s passing, my gunnysack is filled with dead ravens. I say good-bye-for-now to my friend Skinless Paul and I set out with my stolen walking stick. Borrowed? I can barely borrow from the living. A little shorter than me and gnarled, something organic worn smooth apiece at shoulder level.
Through the back roads and hills. All I ask is a road and continuous silence, save for the incidental company of passing travelers. Not that of the businessmen trapped in their little wheeled boxes snarling the turnpike with traffic. They talk to their watches. Or of the homeless. They sniff the breeze and are always in heat, gouging holes in the dirt to fuck.
Off the main thoroughfares, which are impassible, others like me are traveling with their gunnysacks. Some carry corpses for burial. Others write undecipherable words in small books. It gives me fleshy ideas. Our meeting and parting, the skin of cooking milk. Truly genial because tempered with distrust.
Passing these silent tests we speak of the road, but not the journey. It shows on our skin: flesh words. Fellowship is a lie and we know it. The corpses must be carried. Important things unsaid. Miles coiled and coiled into shoes. What's a small godless prayer between two passing bodies? It suffices as currency for tolls on dirt highways.