~Thanatos by Rion~

At the museum I wanted to straddle the mummies. At 12, I didn't know what the straddling would lead to, but it felt happy-dirty, like imagining french-kissing Jesus during services at Sacred Heart.

I still brush my hand up against the glass case when I visit the old man. What history, all distilled into a wizened form! If I could suck that up into me somehow, get wiser, I could make more money or at least not care if I made any less.

My aunt is dying and it makes me cry just a little, but it passes. Would that she could carry the same living meaning as a statue taxidermied in our hearts.

~Tomorrow by Rion~

Dear D,

At gramma's house this week. Mom and Dad are doing their usual tour of their old high schools and stuff, old places where they'd barfed from too much beer or driven too fast. Gross.

Gramma's napping in the easy chair, head slumped, with the volume of Walker, Texas Ranger turned up so loud I Can't Believe she can sleep through it. I love gramma, too bad she doesn't watch any good tv.

Just decided to take a bath in the tub. A narrow one, but deep enough to cover my knees without draining water. And I put my hand, Just There, while thinking about Shane Pederson. Then I sortta started thinking about Marjorie. I actually moaned.

Diary! It felt so nice but now I'm worried that I'm a lezzie. And my hands are pruny.Maybe I'll take another bath. Tomorrow.

~Noun by Rion~

Man. Look. Woman. Comment. Money. Shout. Man. Eyes. Woman. Tear. Man. Door. Woman. Room. Pillow.

Phone. Appointment. Note. Subway. Smell. Gum. Stop. Diagnosis. Time. Eyes. Breath. Breathe.

Man. Bar. Beer. Beer. TV. Bowl. Peanuts. Stool. Mug. Napkin. Tip. Bathroom. Urinal. Foot. Tap. Towel. Trash. Game. Stool. Nudge. Trip. Mug. Fight. Blood.

Woman. Kitchen. Tomato. Bread. Pan. Spaghetti. Burner. Ring. Drain. Hand. Breath. Beat. Burn. Tears. Ice. Breathe.

Doorway. Man. Woman. Whisper. Hand. Heart.

***Pure nepotism***

~L'histoire by Rion~

Frozen on walls and ceilings, subjects pose still. There's the outlandish symmetry of the historical painter's eye. The different angle on physics. In this place, the modern teen enters as a sacrilege wearing an iPod garland around his neck.

Caught, but not restful, the subjects tumble forth in spirit: Napoleons and Marie Curies, legionnaires and milkmaids, knights and peasants and virgins holler at the noisy tour group familiarly, like their mothers would do were they present.

"Tuck that shirt in!"
"Pay attention!"
"Speak clearly, don't slouch."
"Live, explore, collide!"

Without noticing, the teens stumble around listening to audio tours: this tapestry, that jewel, this scupture, that javelin. Yeah.

Would they had a medium to channel the outrage of history ignored. She could give voice to the terrible message of captive time.

Would they had different ears than their fathers and mothers, and their parents fathers and mothers. But still they do not improve upon anything, each learning the same lessons again and again and again while history sighs.

***Shameless self promotion!***