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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3459 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention While Watching Russian Films Treezaa (T. E. Ballard) Silos are waking in the sun and the mother is pouring wine to the boys watering it down with rainwater and you’ll never know what is in the blue box drowning with the father, waves first circling his fingers then his wrists and it would be wonderful to die like this, slowly. Children running on a beach calling papa, papa and everything is more than beautiful, it is lonely-- a boy’s cut lip, black hair sinking deeper and deeper. The body blooms at the bottom of a river. Camera goes black then to the mother pouring wine and now you know everything. It is simple to die. To show dying. Do it slowly like filling a cup. The women are always beautiful or ugly and even the houses are sad flooding the screen then disappearing to white. And you want to be cold, to have love even though their tongues would be blue, locked together but truth does not matter, it’s obsolete and here’s a quality you admire. He could be enough, if it was cold enough and truth did not matter. And the women did not grow to look like their mothers. Generally there is no sex but violins mate as if underwater and these hums are lullabies to the fish in plastic bags, breathing in, out. You always come back to the silos or the father dying and the heaviness descends slowly and is comforting. A blanket to keep you warm when nothing else matters. |
