MUST-ACHE
1. My father is a man with a scar on his forehead and a tattoo on his hand. He is a man with a mustache that drapes over my shoulders and down my back. My father is a man who is a man who is a ghost.
2. When I wake up my hair is wet and rain is blowing in through the window. I take all of my clothes off and build a small fire in my room, then I set my wet clothes on the burning tipi. I stay up all night planting a grove of vines near the door.
3. I take a walk with my father's ghost. We go to the park and feed the ducks. I get crumbs in his mustache and he wipes them off my shoulder. Thanks, I say.
4. I dream of Mountain standing in the middle of a great prairie. I watch black smoke curl around Mountain's summit. I decide to give the mountain a name. I name it Mountain.
5. The apartment is dark and cold. There is no light or heat. Ivy covers most of the windows and doors. I lay on the floor staring at my ceiling until vines overtake it.
6. My father's ghost knits his mustache into mine and we walk through the woods holding hands. I try to tell him about my dream but he isn't paying attention. He is busy shaking bird nests out of branches and collecting them in our mustache.
7. I find a washed out picture of my father where his eyes are small dark clouds. When I put the picture up to my ear I hear thunder. My father's ghost tells me that it's only the ocean. I clear some ivy and put his picture on the wall.
8. My father's ghost drops me off at my apartment. He tells me that I feel lonely again I can walk to the library, or read a book. Maybe finish proofreading that letter for him. I say okay and then go inside.
9. I attempt to grow a mustache of my own. A small ingrown hair occurs. When I pop it blood, pus, and mud come out. I experience a great deal of pain. I decide to give my mustache a name. I name it Must-Ache.
10. One afternoon I come home and my father's picture is missing. The wall behind the picture is bloody and pale like the skin under a band-aid. A small flower blooms from the center of the wound.
11. My father's ghost stops coming around. I find tiny mustache hairs in the sink. I open a window and burn incense and herbs to lure him back. I fall asleep with the smoke pouring out ribbons and strings.
12. I sit out in the balcony in my sleeping bag and smoke marijuana. I become a piece of paper blowing in the wind. A gust of wind swings me over the guardrail and I watch myself swoop in pendulums down to the street.
13. I fasten tiny scrolls onto pigeons with small lengths of vine. I watch them fly out over my town. The message I send is: I HAVE A BETTER MUSTACHE NOW. CAN YOU COME HOME PLEASE?
14. At my mother's tree house, she tells me I look like a picture. I always wear the same jacket. I tell her it's because I want to look like my father. I tell her it's because I want to look like a ghost.
15. That night I burn more sage and watch the embers drift up over the trees. I watch them until they begin to look like small and dying stars.
16. There is a thing that when I touch it, the thing becomes something else. Something that feels like I don't think or maybe I don't want. When I say it, the thing comes out like I don't know.
17. I decide to stop looking for my father's ghost. I do not understand. It all seems a shroud. A veil of bones. I feel like the time we tried to make bread and our yeast did not rise. I feel like a small and dense thing.
18. I separate the hairs of my mustache and examine my ingrown hair in the mirror. I notice a small flower blooming from the wound. I fold the skin over and tear it off.
29. I dream a succession of polaroids each showing Mountain as it falls to the ground. I watch Mountain's face crack, then split, then crumble. When I reach the last frame the picture turns to blood and falls through my hands.
2. When I wake up my hair is wet and rain is blowing in through the window. I take all of my clothes off and build a small fire in my room, then I set my wet clothes on the burning tipi. I stay up all night planting a grove of vines near the door.
3. I take a walk with my father's ghost. We go to the park and feed the ducks. I get crumbs in his mustache and he wipes them off my shoulder. Thanks, I say.
4. I dream of Mountain standing in the middle of a great prairie. I watch black smoke curl around Mountain's summit. I decide to give the mountain a name. I name it Mountain.
5. The apartment is dark and cold. There is no light or heat. Ivy covers most of the windows and doors. I lay on the floor staring at my ceiling until vines overtake it.
6. My father's ghost knits his mustache into mine and we walk through the woods holding hands. I try to tell him about my dream but he isn't paying attention. He is busy shaking bird nests out of branches and collecting them in our mustache.
7. I find a washed out picture of my father where his eyes are small dark clouds. When I put the picture up to my ear I hear thunder. My father's ghost tells me that it's only the ocean. I clear some ivy and put his picture on the wall.
8. My father's ghost drops me off at my apartment. He tells me that I feel lonely again I can walk to the library, or read a book. Maybe finish proofreading that letter for him. I say okay and then go inside.
9. I attempt to grow a mustache of my own. A small ingrown hair occurs. When I pop it blood, pus, and mud come out. I experience a great deal of pain. I decide to give my mustache a name. I name it Must-Ache.
10. One afternoon I come home and my father's picture is missing. The wall behind the picture is bloody and pale like the skin under a band-aid. A small flower blooms from the center of the wound.
11. My father's ghost stops coming around. I find tiny mustache hairs in the sink. I open a window and burn incense and herbs to lure him back. I fall asleep with the smoke pouring out ribbons and strings.
12. I sit out in the balcony in my sleeping bag and smoke marijuana. I become a piece of paper blowing in the wind. A gust of wind swings me over the guardrail and I watch myself swoop in pendulums down to the street.
13. I fasten tiny scrolls onto pigeons with small lengths of vine. I watch them fly out over my town. The message I send is: I HAVE A BETTER MUSTACHE NOW. CAN YOU COME HOME PLEASE?
14. At my mother's tree house, she tells me I look like a picture. I always wear the same jacket. I tell her it's because I want to look like my father. I tell her it's because I want to look like a ghost.
15. That night I burn more sage and watch the embers drift up over the trees. I watch them until they begin to look like small and dying stars.
16. There is a thing that when I touch it, the thing becomes something else. Something that feels like I don't think or maybe I don't want. When I say it, the thing comes out like I don't know.
17. I decide to stop looking for my father's ghost. I do not understand. It all seems a shroud. A veil of bones. I feel like the time we tried to make bread and our yeast did not rise. I feel like a small and dense thing.
18. I separate the hairs of my mustache and examine my ingrown hair in the mirror. I notice a small flower blooming from the wound. I fold the skin over and tear it off.
29. I dream a succession of polaroids each showing Mountain as it falls to the ground. I watch Mountain's face crack, then split, then crumble. When I reach the last frame the picture turns to blood and falls through my hands.
Labels: stories
posted by wagner israel cilio iii @ 11:01 AM
3 Comments:
some of that was gross Israel..
I did like the imagery though
i like this. it really reminds me of Light Boxes
Hey man. That was really intriguing. I feel like you probably have a full beard though. Hopefully I'll see you at John's wedding next month. That would be awesome.
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