Saturday, November 27, 2010

Jorge Louis Borges & The Garden of Forking Paths

You see guys, this doesn't come often. Usually you read a man's work, you like the reading, end of story. But with this one it's like the fisrt time I read Bukowski. I wanted more. The writing style, the word choices started growing in me, it was F U N ! It wasn't as awe inspiring as reading say, E.E. Cummings, all that drama in a few lines. I guess though it was better, since it keeps flowing and coming and going, and hypnotises you in a way like the swishing of cars on a quiet day post rain , and then BAM, there's music to it, and the metrics you've been counting on have all gone down the drain, but who the f*** cares? You read once again and think look what this devil can do with simple undrammatized words. As you might have guessed I'm not speaking of Bukowski anymore, but this other guy, I posted a poem of, the other day. And it's not in me actually to repeat myself with no good reason. Goes by the nick :herocious on THE OPEN END, and Í've caught myself becoming a fan. I'm positive you will too. Plus, this time I think I've got the right pic to go with the poem. You should have seen my expression on the first reading ! Great work !!!!!!



Jorge Louis Borges & The Garden of Forking Paths -- BY HEROCIOUS



(Please remember that the following is based on fact.)

Outside the bathroom door, Jay-Z flowed.

Inside, it was a different story.

Jorge Louis Borges couldn’t find any toilet paper.

The cardboard roll was there, bare of tissue, completely bald, with very discouraging words written in thick marker and legible hand,

HA HA!! YOU’RE

FUCKED NOW!

Jorge Louis Borges bobbed his chin to Jay-Z’s 1-2-3-4 beat.

He knew he was in a bit of a pickle, but he didn’t see the point in worrying.

Jorge Louis Borges didn’t stand from the bowl.

He remained sitting.

His pants down to his ankles.

He looked at the cardboard and chuckled until his spleen spoke from discomfort.

His spleen said,

“What are you going to do now, Francisco?”

Jorge Louis Borges splayed open his palms and didn’t know what to say.

His spleen said,

“You have to ask the people outside for some help, Francisco. You have quite the mess on your hands.”

Jorge Louis Borges flushed to bring some degree of decency to the situation.

Outside the bathroom door, Jay-Z flowed,

“If you’re having girl problems I feel bad for you son

I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one.”

Jorge Louis Borges rubbed his soon-to-be blind eyes and thought of bitches.

He tapped his toes in his dress shoes and bobbed his chin.

He had a soft spot for hip hop.

His spleen said,

“Don’t daydream, Francisco. Apply yourself. You can’t always behave like a writer. It’s not practical.”

Jorge Louis Borges said,

“When was it ever practical?”

He shook his head and smiled to alleviate the pain of choosing to follow his heart at the age of 13. He didn’t have to follow his heart. He could’ve easily done something else with his life, with his time, that didn’t matter to him, and he probably would’ve managed to find some kind of happiness, but he decided to follow his heart from the very beginning, he did it without really thinking about it, and now he was here.

His spleen said,

“Didn’t you see there was no toilet paper?”

Jorge Louis Borges looked from the lines in his splayed palms to the old ceiling.

The light fixture was Late Baroque.

He looked at the doorknob, at the curliques in its design.

The door was obviously old. It didn’t even fit precisely into the frame.

He could see the paws of his host’s epic Horse Dog scuttling back and forth.

A woman dropped an unpitted olive.

Jorge Louis Borges saw her heel try once to back kick it into the bathroom.

She missed.

She tried again and missed again.

Jorge Louis Borges liked this snippet of society.

The olive-dropper walked away from the bathroom door while talking about beaded earrings she saw Fantasia wearing in People Magazine.

She said,

“They were simply gorgeous. Perfectly indigenous!”

The Horse Dog stooped its epic maw to floor level and inhaled the olive.

Jay-Z’s anthem ended.

Another hip hop act filled the party with his flow.

Jorge Louis Borges didn’t recognize this artist, but he distinctly heard the lyrics,

“I want the world.

You want the pussy.

I want the pearl.”

He stood from the bowl with his pants around his ankles and shuffled to the sink.

He bent over and looked at the feint trail his belt buckle left in the hardwood floor.

Jorge Louis Borges said,

“Soft wood.”

He took the buckle in his fingers and muscled into the wood.

He carved his initials:

JFILBA

No one would know it was him.

This wasn’t the first graffiti Jorge Louis Borges made.

A long time ago, in Austin, TX, he spraypainted an alien frog on a brick wall.

He made it look like the alien frog was saying,

HI, HOW ARE YOU

He intentionally left out the question mark.

At the time, Jorge Louis Borges was a visiting professor at University of Texas.

He got the idea for the alien frog after writing a short essay on estrangement and contraceptives.

His spleen said,

“Focus, Francisco. People will start to wonder where you are hiding.”

Jorge Louis Borges said,

“But if I’m not hiding. I’m only in the bathroom.”

Jorge Louis Borges looked at his shirttail in the mirror and considered this option.

He looked at the hand towel and considered that option.

He opened the medicine cabinet. He bent down and opened the vanity cabinet.

Jorge Louis Borges said,

“Demons!”

There was a tap on the door, quiet at first, probably delivered by the tender knuckles of an inebriated girl.

Jorge Louis Borges yanked the slender thing inside.

She didn’t put up a fight.

He looked around suspiciously at the party and bobbed his chin to 2Pac flowing,

“And even as a crack fiend, mama

You always was a black queen, mama”

Jorge Louis Borges shut the door and turned around expecting to discover the slender thing he dragged inside staring at his mess, but she was sitting tense on the bowl, her torso hunched over her knees, her face puckered tightly as she urinated.

Jorge Louis Borges didn’t interrupt her deep relief.

He looked at the way her toes fanned and wriggled in her thong sandals.

When she finished, she looked up as if from a trance and landed on the cruel marker,

HA HA!! YOU’RE

FUCKED NOW!

Jorge Louis Borges said,

“We’re in this together.”

The slender thing ignored him and reached into her purse for a napkin.

She unfurled the napkin and threw a wooden toothpick away in the trash.

Jorge Louis Borges said,

“Wait!”

The slender thing said,

“What do you want?”

Jorge Louis Borges said,

“1 ply, that’s all I’m asking.”

The slender thing flapped her lips and wiped herself dry.

Jorge Louis Borges said,

“Bitch.”

The slender thing pulled up her black lace panties and arranged the hem of her dress.

Every cell on her skin slithered.

Jorge Louis Borges said,

“There must be something else in your purse.”

The slender thing reapplied lipstick and smacked her lips.

The lipstick made the air in the bathroom smell like crayon.

She laughed at the reflection of the man she saw in the mirror.

The slender thing said,

“You’re Borges.”

The slender thing said,

“I wrote my dissertation on THE GARDEN OF FORKING PATHS.”

Jorge Louis Borges said,

“A whole dissertation? Incredible.”

The slender thing leaned closer to the mirror.

Jorge Louis Borges admired her tomato pushing roundly through the fabric of her dress.

His spleen said,

“Tap that, Francisco.”

The slender thing pressed her lipsticked mouth against the mirror, right where Jorge Louis Borges’s face stilled.

The slender thing said,

“Institutions pay me a salary because I understand your work.”

Jorge Louis Borges said,

“There’s nothing to understand except this — ”

And like a swooping crane, he snagged her purse from the sink and flipped it upside down.

He shook it desperately.

The only thing that fell onto the hardwood floor was LABYRINTHS, his little book of stories and writings.

The slender thing faced Jorge Louis Borges.

She looked into his soon-to-be-blind eyes and gently took back her purse.

She twisted her lipstick, capped the crayon tip.

She pressed her frontside against this old man with his pants hanging around his ankles.

She grinded into his old-man prick.

The slender thing said,

“I’ve fucked you so many times for pay. I could do it again.”

Jorge Louis Borges had been with prostitutes, but this girl was of another kind.

Nevertheless,

He almost grew the courage to squeeze her tomato.

He was almost there.

To squeeze the life out of it.

When she left.

Jorge Louis Borges caught his breath.

He breathed.

Jorge Louis Borges looked at the smooch on the mirror, right where his face stilled.

His spleen said,

“Well, it’s a good thing she left when she did.”

Jorge Louis Borges understood. He understood.

With the book in his hands, he opened to THE GARDEN OF FORKING PATHS.

Without reading more than the title, he ripped the first page from the book and vigorously wiped his literary ass.

He did the same thing with the next 2 pages and then went back into the party, where Ice Cube flowed,

“Today I didn’t even have to use my A.K.

I got to say it was a good day.”

Jorge Louis Borges settled into his pants and bobbed his chin.

He always had a soft spot for hip hop.




Published under ::CREATIVE WRITING::
on November 26, 2010
::the open end:: Copyright © 2010 All Rights Reserved.



Isn't this genious or what???

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

I can not believe it!!!BOOTS BOYS.(OMERTA).

herocious said...

I liked reading this, Setty. Thank you. Hope to see more of your work over at The Open End.