Page 39 - WTP VOl. VIII #7

Jesus Christ! said the second—whatever the hey, for you? Damn!
She closed with them yard over yard, head down, to not seem an eavesdropper.
Lord! yelled the first man. You are so dense! I have just turned this on you! You are the liar! And you thought you had turned the tables on me so well—well, I—
No!
With that, the second man shot straight, stomp-stamping a sole to the cement, slapping a sharp unexpected super- loud snap all around, just as the overburdened woman reached apogee toward the men—spawning an overall tremble up her weakening off-balance frame, and two
of her three bags one over one twist-ripped from her grip, all falling showering fast color uh red yellow, and more—ack tumble glinting jarglass wound tight ‘round red split down to the footpack splashing her sauce a’ the next moment’s pure white carton burst in a milkspread out all from her front, back, sides, and eck—her hands opened letting the third and last bag drop hit and open— all now open bags over boxes, jars, cans, and a bottle or two smells like vinegar-thick. Pure like water. Glisten-
ing white creamy thick streaks the red sauce. Eggcarton upside down’s the first she makes out and. Stooping she grips for it. Must regain control; it is sunny and spring and who may be seeing. Fools drop like this. Clumsy fools drop like this. Careless clumsy jump-jittery fools drop like this—get—she got the egg carton, but. She got the egg trying harder’s carton doing the but not opposite
it’s really get it going no but to admit defeat when all is lost is the let valiant the egg soldier’s carton go, because the first egg last thing’s the yellow yolk’s oozing just crunched into the mess to the mess and they all got to
be laughing so give up eh eh let go eh eh eh let go and
get going eh eh eh eh save face the mess, you know, and they all got to be laughing, there’s people get paid to tidy the streets, eh, there’s people get paid to tidy the streets and the sidewalks, eh, eh, but they better eh, eh, eh, and they all got to be laughing get here eh, eh, the sun’s bak- ing eh this shot of a spread mess out into the concrete, eh, the tiny pore-holes will soak this all down; eh eh there will be a stain forever know that Buck? Eh. Hey,
this damned stain in the walk here, eh, eh. Been here for years. Ever wonder how it got here? Eh, eh, eh. I do, I do. I bet nobody else does but I do eh, eh. And now I bet you’ll always too. Eh. E. Funny. Come on we’re going to be late for the curtain; shit let’s hurry up we ought of left sooner; swear to us, we will never learn. But, come on. It’s a great show. We won’t miss the curtain if we get a rush on now.
Meirose’s work has appeared in numerous venues, and his published novels include Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrec- tion (Mannequin Haus), Understanding Franklin Thompson (JEF Books), and Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer (Optional Books).
“Is what you’re saying like, is that someting
might be true or not might be or not might whatever or not—could be reffering to a million things...”
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