there. I gotta certain person to see, and you’re gonna fucking wait. Give me all your damn 20’s. Now. Taking capitulation for granted, he proceeded to grab the wad of 20 dollar bills I yieldingly extended, ripped them in half, precisely down the middle, pocketed the right-side halves, and handed the left-side halves back to me, saying, Here’s half, the other half comes later. You’re definitely gonna wait now, aren’t you, you dumb shit, so drive. The roads are terrible, sure, they’re paved with bullshit and bones, so whattayou expect? That’s the rub. Don’t be stupid or you’re fucked. C’mon drive, asshole. It’s The Pelican’s fucking birthday and it’s time for a little fun.
I was filled with alarmed disquietude at this one man scorched earth campaign, his pendulous chin waddle making him resemble a malevolent pelican with no need of the costume, so it didn’t hit me until we arrived there, a mismatched duo, stormy and shifty. The 2600 block of Dauphine Street. I’d purposely looped this block several times a night, every night, for the past few weeks, hoping to see Hannah again. Once it struck, as I pulled up to the requested address, right in front of a modest house, not quite as tight to the sidewalk like the others, my face crashed and I sank, trembling and realizing that, though I didn’t know her exact address, this must be it. We were at the spot where she’d flagged me down, and he knew her, knew where she lived. An air of menacing improbability about the three Scorpios meeting. Constellation, The Pelican, buried, dirt, rub. Call the burial, dirt rest. C, t, b, d, r.
Though it seems like this is where the genesis of a poor stain began, in actuality, the gradual accumulation of cruelty and brutality that seeped from the folds of The Pelican originated long before, building over time for a certain eventuality, now calling out to extract the swift payment due. People like me aren’t the extractors, though. We have no retributive resolve. We’re the ones who stand back silently and witness. I later heard allusions to more of The Pelican’s unsavory repertoire, incidents far more sinister than I imagined, ranging before and after being dumped in the 5th District from the 8th, and I became so light-headed that it was necessary to sit down for a minute. It should have been no surprise. I’m not looking to flatter malice when I say that he bore the faces of a dead conscience and a contemptuous force. His eyes were fringed pools of suffering, as if from an accumulated permanent unrest. Was he born malignant or did something wall him up over the years? This is a question better diverted.
Day 9
There’s a strange sensation one finds at this quiet hour, a sensation of fleeting shadowmotion. Although it seems like we breed minute creatures of all types in New Orleans, these particular sudden scurries are embedded within the pages of my daily record as if each letter is a plant moving discreetly in accordance to external stimuli. Also plant-like, but in its own fashion of no-longer-dormant verticality, the text creeps upward while also rooting into the earthy paper, making embossing look simplistic by comparison. I should mention that my relationship with the revision of this disclosure-in-print is unusual. The act of rereading (what with harsh critiquing and thoughts of mortification while trying to wrestle loose tangled disciples on the page), appears to cause literal wounds to the text itself, mortal cuts that lay the groundwork for regeneration. My means of revising isn’t typical, but more so setting forth kinesis by a light breathy human fluid, moistening the gears like a consent-syllable, activating the potential transmutation of the letters as motion machines. The trick’s in coaxing overt emergence, participation, and the revealing of unexpected scenarios beyond their otherwise ongoing covert scratchy repetitive motions,
I was filled with alarmed disquietude at this one man scorched earth campaign, his pendulous chin waddle making him resemble a malevolent pelican with no need of the costume, so it didn’t hit me until we arrived there, a mismatched duo, stormy and shifty. The 2600 block of Dauphine Street. I’d purposely looped this block several times a night, every night, for the past few weeks, hoping to see Hannah again. Once it struck, as I pulled up to the requested address, right in front of a modest house, not quite as tight to the sidewalk like the others, my face crashed and I sank, trembling and realizing that, though I didn’t know her exact address, this must be it. We were at the spot where she’d flagged me down, and he knew her, knew where she lived. An air of menacing improbability about the three Scorpios meeting. Constellation, The Pelican, buried, dirt, rub. Call the burial, dirt rest. C, t, b, d, r.
Though it seems like this is where the genesis of a poor stain began, in actuality, the gradual accumulation of cruelty and brutality that seeped from the folds of The Pelican originated long before, building over time for a certain eventuality, now calling out to extract the swift payment due. People like me aren’t the extractors, though. We have no retributive resolve. We’re the ones who stand back silently and witness. I later heard allusions to more of The Pelican’s unsavory repertoire, incidents far more sinister than I imagined, ranging before and after being dumped in the 5th District from the 8th, and I became so light-headed that it was necessary to sit down for a minute. It should have been no surprise. I’m not looking to flatter malice when I say that he bore the faces of a dead conscience and a contemptuous force. His eyes were fringed pools of suffering, as if from an accumulated permanent unrest. Was he born malignant or did something wall him up over the years? This is a question better diverted.
Day 9
There’s a strange sensation one finds at this quiet hour, a sensation of fleeting shadowmotion. Although it seems like we breed minute creatures of all types in New Orleans, these particular sudden scurries are embedded within the pages of my daily record as if each letter is a plant moving discreetly in accordance to external stimuli. Also plant-like, but in its own fashion of no-longer-dormant verticality, the text creeps upward while also rooting into the earthy paper, making embossing look simplistic by comparison. I should mention that my relationship with the revision of this disclosure-in-print is unusual. The act of rereading (what with harsh critiquing and thoughts of mortification while trying to wrestle loose tangled disciples on the page), appears to cause literal wounds to the text itself, mortal cuts that lay the groundwork for regeneration. My means of revising isn’t typical, but more so setting forth kinesis by a light breathy human fluid, moistening the gears like a consent-syllable, activating the potential transmutation of the letters as motion machines. The trick’s in coaxing overt emergence, participation, and the revealing of unexpected scenarios beyond their otherwise ongoing covert scratchy repetitive motions,
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