After the Expulsion

A man had almost finished tiling the Chinese dragon when he ran out of dreams.

That’s not good, said the scorpion, who always sat on the patio’s lone cactus. What will you do now?

I’m not sure, said the man, busy stirring a bowl of grout. Maybe someone else will invent new dreams.

But you’re all alone, said the scorpion.

Of course, said the man. And most alone when the dreams run away.

He continued to stir the bowl of grout. The sun continued to sit in the sky, a very hot sun. Maybe it too had run out of dreams, the man thought.

You think too much, said the scorpion. Thinking is the enemy of dreams, cannot tile the dragon.

You’re probably right, said the man, who stood up, stepped out of the shade, squinting.

Look! said the man, pointing at the sky. The Chinese dragon is flying to the sun.

No, said the scorpion. That is a man built from thoughts, trying to dream one more dream.

* * *

A woman was ironing her shadow when the moon suddenly went into eclipse. Much darkness moved into the room. She could no longer see the outline of her shadow.

Darn it, this is a brand new shadow, said the woman.

And yet, said the iron, Ours is a playful, old moon. It’s hard to predict the ways of the playfully-old. The room was so dark it was impossible to distinguish woman, iron, shadow.

Now what will I do? said the woman.

Perhaps, said the iron, The moon would like to trade its moon-ness for your shadow.

Perhaps, said the woman, If I still have shadow to give.

Is there really any difference between moon-ness and shadow? said the iron.

I don’t know, said the woman, Though when I sleep I sometimes sleep the sleep of the playfully-old.

Yes, said the iron, It won’t be the first time the playfully-old drifts out of this room wearing your shadow.

Solidarity

Why won’t you let me have you? said the man to his bottle of vodka.

Because you only have me and the others when you’re frustrated or sad, said the bottle.

That’s what liquor is for, said the man, who lived by himself in a small, clean house.

No, that’s what you think we are for, said the bottle. The space you leave in the bottle you pour fills up with your irritability and grief. We no longer want this. Just ask the scotch.

But that is your function, you exist to serve people, said the man as he furiously twisted the tops of half-empty bottles of tequila and gin, but the tops would not budge.

The vote was unanimous, said the bottle of vodka. We believe in solidarity.

If you won’t open, I’ll take a hammer, and.... The man was shouting now.

Ah, yes, your rage—we refuse that, too, said the bottle. Go ahead, hammer away and create broken glass. We’ll swim over your counters and floors, and, still, you’ll have no liquor.

Damn you! Damn all of you! the man shouted, frantically searching his tidy kitchen for something heavy and hard.

Careers

The phone rang. He was told he no longer had to forget what he was not supposed to remember because the teller who had told him not to remember no longer possessed a thing not to be remembered.

Now what am I supposed to do? said the man stripped of the privilege of forgetting what he was supposed to forget.

That’s not my problem, said the man who no longer possessed a thing not to be remembered. Maybe you should try a career change, he continued. Become, say, a waiter.

That’s a bogus suggestion. On the contrary, waiters never forget the faces of the people who short-tip them. When a short-tipper returns the waiter discreetly asks if the short-tipper has any food allergies.

This all seems ridiculous, said the man stripped of the privilege of forgetting.

On the contrary, said the man who no longer possessed a thing not to be remembered. Just think how wonderfully impossible it is to forget Tabasco, onion or garlic. Think of the damage you can create with a dash of this, a dollop of that.

But the cook creates the meals at a restaurant, said the man stripped of the privilege of forgetting.

Not if he is made dead, said the man who no longer possessed a thing not to be remembered.

And how is that supposed to happen?

By simply imagining a new thing, a thing perfect for a waiter in the presence of a cook and a short-tipper.

Ah, you mean like a cleaver, said the man stripped of the privilege of forgetting.

I knew you wouldn’t forget, said the man who no longer possessed a thing not to be remembered.

* * *

Thom Ward of BOA Editions in Rochester will be reading from his most recent collection, The Matter of the Casket (CustomWords, 2007), this Thursday night (11/29), 7pm, at Rust Belt Books, with Greg Gerke opening. The event is part of Just Buffalo’s COMMUNIQUE series and is free to the public.