from any writing annie oakley
Of all the things was there, there was never any writing. There was lots of never’s evers
but the writing was/is the one, now. There was a presumed autopsy of possibilities and
the facts quite plainly were that without her tongue there would be no, thing, to devour.
To sour. With no meat there would be but ridiculous accusations of the worse kind. And
they would go on and on repeatedly till never you mind. But now there is writing. There
are Eighty words. Eight little words multiplied. There is no ten. On the tenth there is, any.
Any is not the necessary one but a stream of any one any how any place, an anxious
Annie, all seethed. Her name wasn’t Annie, only. Oaklie one Christmas holstering the any
more and anyone’s guess why they gave holsters with no guns. Annie was quiet and wrote
not. Shot not off, her mouth. Nor any thing, said. Then. Yet. Precisely.
The twoing was froed. Her mouth not her own. If bullets were the secret in the hidden
gun her throat is lined with them. The yawning at table is insulting. The gaps in her teeth
unfortunate. Though some effort is made to address something that is never made clear
the rigor of its instilling at the depths is never the less implied with vigor. And. The
necessity of the stillness is made abundantly clear. Still. Not stilling, still already please
miss. Open but no form of any is to arise, in that instant or any. The writing is to never
never take the place of the missing gun. Always in the throat at the very back ready to
blow off is any trigger. Always any. Any thing… and that is it. That is all there was. What
is the antidote to any… any old mouth any old cunt pussy bit of a lick. That is all there
ever ever was. If all there ever is, there is at least this word too.
(My father loved me so much he loved me so, loved loved me so so much. And me. He
loved me so so much so much to do, so much to so so love so much and my mother too
loved him so much loved him not me so much she graciously gave me to him, so much,
so very very much, was she in love with him so very very much, so much, she gave so
much. And then with so much happening she overwhelmed and so so very much did so
very much to me after so much was done because the so much made her so very very so,
so much. Hate me. So much, so very very, very so much. So much unfortunately, it was
all so much, all too much for her. really.)
My mother, the mother never wrote. A-THING. anything except Dear in a sapphire pen
with sapphire ink, on pale sapphire paper, a rare obscuring obsce-ene… Dear.
Rapsody-ing the blue that contained all that un said.