She was a dirty old woman

She disregarded my attempts to discuss the plummeting economy. Instead she kept sticking her fingers into a jar of slime, snorting whenever the green sludge emitted a wet fart. I stood in front of her, amazed that those two sausages could both fit into such a small plastic container. I soon became tired of the plastic queefing so I left her struggling with it all, looking like a well-dressed ape on the verge of throwing feces at unsuspecting bipeds.

In my best Henry Higgins saunter I crossed behind her, to the silver shrine she had set up to create a sort of halo around her whenever she sat at that exact spot. Millions of glass bottles reflected my face. A fat bottle of Tequila shaped like a Mexican sombrero caught my eye. It was mostly empty, but I noticed that the worm resting in the dregs seemed to be missing half of its body. Alcohol-soaked dentures had chomped away its boozy dignity.

The bottles seemed to reach back for rows and rows, like Bacchanalian orange groves. I was certain that if I was desperate enough, if in a drunken stupor I placed my sweaty cheek on one of the shelves and hoarsely whispered for some liquid to quench the thirst that none of the now empty bottles could fulfill, the hand of Dionysus himself would appear and tip bourbon of the Gods onto my lips...sweeter than orange juice, deadlier than a switchblade. 

She must have experienced that countless times. The Lord of Moonshine had visited her with a hand-wrapped bottle every year of her life. If I reached back far enough I could find the rubber nipple-tipped bottle of port that still bears the marks of her teething.

I felt a sudden wetness spread over the back of my head. The Grand Ape had thrown the slime at me. Apparently opposable thumbs are no use when it comes to solving the immense puzzle of closing a jar of guar gum. 

But that's the consideration you get when you give your grandmother her Christmas present early.

1:23 by 8:00

1:23

I had bought her a five dollar box of Butter Waffle cookies, French. As she slept I placed it on her pink linoleum table, the cat didn't meow when I came in, the floor didn't creak, the air conditioner didn't stop its particular hum. I just didn;t make an enterance. Her table was strewn with magazines, balls of cat fur, keys and cigarette butts, she didnt smoke though, i noted. In the middle of it all sat a gleaming Joan Diddion anthology, with a copper cover. There it sat next to the chaos of it all. A bible of sorts, maybe a medallion of travel of the Golden State life (1:23) left behind. I placed the butter waffled cookies adjacent to the "bible". And i awaited on her cold kitchenette pastle colored chairs till early evening when she awoke, saw my face and served me coffee without a single word. The polluted sunset was a neon orange that night, partically crimsion. It bounced of her misshaped back in chuncks of blocked color. Caressing her ass, calves and neck in this apocoliptic sort of romance light. She riffled through her silverware drawer for a match. Her dark green silk garment tied around her hips

:this is my dawn isn't it wonderful like this?!"

She stopped and looked at me for ages, seemed like.

"Why?"

:because its supposed to be the treat at the end of the day. Its gluttonous to enjoy it once you awake"

"I don't believe that." She says.

"Obviously."

I don't kiss her. I never have. I cherish her. Her face pock ridden and dirty. Her eyes dull and human. I wish i could play fancy and describe different worlds between her and I. But there lies nothing. I like it like that.
Entertained by her tight green robe and the fast fading sun, I Realised she hadn't noticed the butter cookies. I pushed them close to her, as if a rustle of cardboard would maker her turn. I began changing my body position and taping my fingers against her linolem table. NOthing. She kept looking at her two plates (pink, blue) five bowls (2 porecline, 1 white, 2 green) the six cups (3 mugs, 3 fragile wine glasses) the sun was gone by now. Darkness settled on her figure and on her barren cupboards and scuffed hardwood floor.

"Turn on a light!"

She said faintly dabbing hr head with her index and middle finger.

"I bought you butter cookies."

She cocked her head towards them, creeping towards the box as if examining an exotic beast before handling it in a tap act.

"A five dollar box of cookies!" I said.

She looked timid before them. Picking up the box and reading the fonts and words about it.

"Juuuules Destrooper-Product of Belgium- Paris Butter Waffles."

Her face eased inbetween words.
Opening the silver plasitic, fondeling the fragile geomeetric cookie in her hand Digesting them before her afternoon of 8:00 pm.

a relic, an enigma

who can say when it stops? 'cause the footsteps will fall until the floor caves in, and hoarse voices ring so much sweeter at dawn