Aliens“What the –” “Aliens,” John replied, not turning. “Why is everything covered in tin foil?” “Aliens,” said John from under his shining lid of aluminium. For, truth be told, there was a lot of it about. There was a sheet taped in place on top of the television, and a whole canopy of the stuff on top of the lovingly installed computer network; there was a tin hat on Jackson, who lay in his basket wondering what could possibly be strapped on top of his head; and somehow, painstakingly, someone had managed to tie a square of silver metal onto the parrotAliens
Atheist IdealismI want a small place to hang my hat on. It needs to be a small fragment of wall in white space, constructing itself in peeling green paint and beautiful stained wainscots. The hanger, the curved hook, must be of an insistent bronze, strident, soft and playful. The rest of the house rises up around me, unfurling from the small row of hooks on the west wall, a half dozen of them bearing tiny blue rain-jackets. Fifteen individual shoes of different sizes grow from the tiles like daisies and pumpkins, weaving in and out of one another. The tiles flip outwards, supporting my new legs, my new ankles with their wrinkled, smooth skin; theAtheist Idealism
EyesSt. Thomas Aquinas stood at the end of my bed with a cat and a small lamp that was struggling to get away from him. He said, “My son, there are five ways you can get out of this; five ways you can survive the war. I have fought for this lamp. The lamp is my greatest strength. It would seek to escape me; it has been corrupted by Kronos, by God, by the King of Time himself. Will you not help me? I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything. My throat is dry, dry like an empty litter box, and I was staring at the cat. I can’t take my eyes off of the damn thing, with its ineffable grin. “Will youEyes
Upon The Subject of Doors VIIIStanding at the well, he winched up the bucket. It took a long time. His arm ached a little, and the silence unnerved him. When the bucket reached him, he looked at the birds. The birds looked back, expectant. “Would you care to give me hand? The bucket is a bit too far away.” The birds watched him blankly. Not one of them moved. “Thank you. Thank you ever so much.” They sat, absorbed in the spectacle. It was a few minutes before he gathered the courage to perform a flying leap from the lip of the well. His flailing arms grabbed the bucket, pulling theUpon The Subject of Doors VIII
Shoes, Misquotedthe two mourning doves on the branch above me for a moment were misquoted as a pair of boy’s shoes, taken off and too-neatly placed ten feet in the air. he (I wish I knew who he was) had flown there, and in his impatience jumped away to another somewhere thatShoes, Misquoted
doesn’t belong to me.
it was a funeral- I remember him (telling me) now, and the birds were what he left behind in a promise
of return. I take off my own shoes, sharpie-tattooed rubber and green canvas drifting upward in a metaphysical wind and I
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