Forrest Richey - Slink


(Forrest/FiCus, suffering from a case of collegiate
hemophilia, sends an expectoration from some part of his
respiratory tract; or, a copious discharge from dilated
torturous veins in swollen tissue at or within the anal
margin. Shit, put a hemostat on that. Or treat it quick
with hemp or hemp nettle, Mary. [fowler])

As if I drifted I lay and uncovered dictionary
dream..."Slink"...the word "slink" slipped into my mind.
Mought it be that a sliver of lime and a glass of slivovitz
would cure this slobbering for a sloe-eyed beauty? I
crave...I look and up a slope, sloppily wet from exertion,
is a slot. I observe as it slothfully slouches, a la
Didion, my way...I look up again and inhabit the entire
water volume of a slough...a clock-tick and I realize a
sloven-hoofed animal nibbles my waterline, slowly imbibes my
crystal essence. My tentacular tributaries move slow and I evolve toward end-of-training, slug-shaped
tiny ones crawl upon my marge, trailing unique signatures,
tropistic only. A flash of searing light and I'm slugging
in the ring again, aging fast toward burnout...the light
fades...old me is sluiced away before the water can
evaporate...for moments or millennia, I abide
speaching slurred, the animal's hooves now slurry mud in my
self, I try to rise getting only slush...caught it seems in
this sly backwater as the animal's lips smack, her eyes
light, my smallness increases. Parts of me feel as a small
ale in its small minded small talk trying to pass it off as
creating a reality...a smarty pants...I smash Him and
asudden begin drifting begin talking a smattering of creek'
thinking like a river I roll along obscured by smaze, I
catch a boat and smear it on a rock uttering the smear word
Aaaaahhhhhh' I toil long tubing toward the smell of frying
onions feeling a smelt I wonder often if oceanward going and
smile another salt fish and I smirk...I am to smite these
tight saltless shores one last time having been forged in
the smithy and found right I carry in me condensed smog to
be purified of smoke and sly smiles carried from before to
the still-pot of Gaia for desmids and whale sharks to return
to sediments and to a subduction zone and sometime
later...smoky quartz...a sharp crystal smolders and
scratches my eye...I SHATTER awake, the player's diamond
needle scratches the center surface of "Mysterious
Mountain". I sweat. Mahn! Tha' musta been Some dream.
What's for supper?

Ficus strangulensis, 3 June 1993

From Grist On-Line #1, October, 1993. An original publication.
© copyright 1993 Forrest Richey