Wednesday, January 30, 2013

sardines on sourdough

ANDRE BRETON- Be quiet. Leave me alone.


ANDRE BRETON- I’m trying to draw my breath. It seems to require a capital A-plus amount of concentration.

RONALD MCDONALD- That’s good for you?

ANDRE BRETON- Supposed to be.

RONALD MCDONALD- You crave attention, and therefore are never to be quenched in your struggle for more of it. “Look at me! Look! Look at me!” What a capital B bunch of bull. Pencil or pen?

ANDRE BRETON- Pencil. Graphite mechanical pencil. Drafting is my milieu these nights.

RONALD MCDONALD- Like a spoiled brat who beats his new pony because it doesn’t clean up its own shit.

ANDRE BRETON- In, deep. Hold it. Then, softly…slowly, back out. Ah. Relaxation comes with a sticker price of I-don’t-give-a-damn-what-the-hell-any-of-you-shit-heads-thinks.


ANDRE BRETON- Counting helps. Yes. The steps you’re scared to take. You can count them. You can name and remember them. They can become safe, just more recognizable objects for you to take stock of, organize, and stow away.

RONALD MCDONALD- All mine are of the lowercase variety. Gardens of them, without sorrow or joy though. Without Marvins. Merely gardens.

ANDRE BRETON- The things one does to dampen the noise of one’s own existence. What else matches our own self-defeats?

RONALD MCDONALD- Our sketches in graphite of our own breath?

ANDRE BRETON- Not likely. Like, “I write her letters from the most worried of places, even if she don’t love me anymore.”

RONALD MCDONALD- To get even in the oddest of ways. There’s challenge in those crap-outings of yours. A take that never gets rehearsed, and over-and-over is done too wrong and almost just right. Gather up your pity’s W-2 forms and fill out your soul’s tax returns with the imaginary lines connecting the stars of closer-than-you’d-think constellations. That breath you take might just be your own.

ANDRE BRETON- Swift strokes of deft precision. Inimitable lines of trust penciled in dreadnoughts of cheap chenille dreams. Nobody’s on first, but we’re all itching to swipe second anyway. A leno weave of staying put. I connect dots of purpose so I won’t have to behave awfully for company. My breath is not a circus tent. Not even. Not yet.

RONALD MCDONALD- Clean hands are a must. The gunk out from beneath the nails-- pliers-cut and emery-filed. Palms constantly wiped dry with a microfiber cloth. No smudges. No mistakes. All is as it should be.

ANDRE BRETON- Quiet. Please. I am attempting to draw here.

RONALD MCDONALD- As you were. But where?


RONALD MCDONALD- Passed out on too much past. Pssst! I get it. Yep. Pssssssssssst!


RONALD MCDONALD- No. No. No. Did I mention that I’m perfectly incapable of making somebody else’s decisions my own?


RONALD MCDONALD- Correct. Good. I could say something like, “Beeswax as usual.” But that’d be inconsiderate of your struggles. No. Instead it’s, “Draw, my dear. Draw.” That is what the cards say to the poker faced. 


RONALD MCDONALD- Two can play at that game…

ANDRE BRETON- So many ifs and onlys in this world. Take a picture of my breath for posterity.

RONALD MCDONALD- Okay. Now you’re really asking for it.

ANDRE BRETON- Better than just taking it. Better than milking toast for a living? I’d say. But I won’t.

RONALD MCDONALD- And between this and that and…? Well, we spend our time rollicking in the paragraphs of our lives. We indent the difference between it all. Skid marks on the underwear of the age. Our age. Any age. It’s all up to the last minute, and it’s all…bogus.

ANDRE BRETON- Shush it. Have I mentioned that I am trying to concentrate here? Drawing breath, you know? It ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.


ANDRE BRETON- Nectarines. No. Wait. Um…okay. Figurines.

RONALD MCDONALD- It’s better than hauling around deplorably upbeat habits like these. It’s better than playing nice on the surface.

ANDRE BRETON- That reminds me, what the hell are you doing in my drawing room? The high, ho-less, silver now that I’m pacing around in is becoming too crowded with valences of empty shapes, shades that’ll cower to shadows, and turnstile lifestyles. Get me a breath so I can sketch my consciousness on blue lined paper with it. A splash of grappa for your thoughts?

RONALD MCDONALD- And a dram of absinthe for my vital signs.

ANDRE BRETON- It’s sweeter, and concurrent with abysmal, wished-away rights. You cannot force me to stop. I will draw this breath. This breath I will draw. In my best pajama power suit, in my loafing gear and W-neck sweater, I digress with the best of ‘em.

RONALD MCDONALD- The neighbors sing on worse lawns than these. I am certain of it.

ANDRE BRETON- Bathed in neutrality for worse and even worse. It lets me cross my eyes instead of my fingers, frees me up to scrub tearstains from the upholstery while I whistle along with the refrigerator.

RONALD MCDONALD- For whom do you take me? A crane operator? A peanut grinder? A sieve-fisted finder?

ANDRE BRETON- I believe in corrupted tiny miracles, ones that define less about who we are, who we are taken for, and who we’ll never get around to becoming. It is in the spiffy gesturing of a soon-to-be-drowning woman that we might find the rigour and define ourselves as circle drawers instead of nose breathers caught at a vendue of our formerly least-prized possessions. “Look at me. I am accomplishing something. I am here. Look.” Or something like that, I guess.

RONALD MCDONALD- Treat me without respect. It’s alright. Everything is dancing with okay. Believe me. Or don’t. Keep drawing. This breath you draw might be your last.

ANDRE BRETON- Elusive puddling. A crossed-out word. Bated, borrowed, and…

RONALD MCDONALD- Oh, hell. Just some miserable thaumaturgy for the downtrodden, the weak of brawn and faint of heart. We cannot keep up this charade of borrowing moods like cups of sugar. Pound out some truth from this thing like it's the hood of a ’58 Packard, my friend. I will keep you up at night with my daydreams.    

ANDRE BRETON- The lingering motions I keep myself from making, the hushed doubt of trout fishing anywhere but in America. There are lines I have yet to consider, whims of a circular nature, bits of crumbled charcoal to wipe from the clean, clear, flat surface. Pristine backdrops lose their luster in the scribbling of my days. Do not look at me. I am hiding from greedy coroners. Do not give me away.

RONALD MCDONALD- Draw on, my unfortunate fellow. Your breath will not be taken lightly.


RONALD MCDONALD- Perfectly close enough.