Great White Hunter
By Cheyenne Nimes
A TYPICAL meteor comes from an object the size of a grain of sand. Then the mass of a nail. The mass of a lady’s gold bracelet. To the length of a newborn baby. You can look at it & know nothing else about it. That it casts no light and makes no shadows. Lies curled in its egg. Giant halo of eggs. Wind carries a whiskey breath, reptilian mixed in. It is probably the most basic human fear: getting attacked by a wild animal. It is just there, and it’s not predictable. It’s not foreseeable. It will happen out of the corner of your eye. It’s like a big game. You play games? It’s about gambling & love, an old blues trick. I don’t know him but I know his kind. Sharktooth necklace. He held my gaze with an intense stare. A little light in a straight shot. Red dots mark the meanderings of one. It didn’t follow the rules anymore. Vegas, Baby. Smell of human meat bearing down. Flesh toward bone. The unbroken pan across the skies says it’s only a few cell widths away; rock throwing range. He’ll have no difficulty finding the place. Everyone in this room- & I do mean everyone. Six billion-plus puzzle. The Ranch at the End of the Road. The heart’s continued beating is an involuntary muscle movement. It’s all we know. A floodlight revealed figures in yellow vests clamoring. There is only one answer to it. There is only one way out of this & that is to reach out & grab its hand. Some of you know these things, but perhaps you’ve never put it together: we have good horses, crossbows, giant bones that can be shaped into war clubs. Bowie knife. Cap pistol. Spears & spear-throwers. An overgrown six-shooter, live shells, love letters… an axe, magic, drug of choice. A big-block Chevy engine, canine teeth, or whatever surface is used. As if everything can get reduced to a physical explanation. But my hand shakes. You can have your three days of darkness any way you want to have them. But you cannot lean into sky. You can’t snatch it out. We’re playing way past that now… He has the air of someone tired of pretending. Seersucker suit. Underway toward. Acceleration. Lover’s Leap. After a long silence. Relishing what was clearly a well-rehearsed line. The day of judgment is either approaching or it is not. We could not have far to go.
- - -
bio: 2009 winner of DIAGRAM’s hybrid essay contest, I just graduated from the nonfiction writing program at Iowa. I was a 2009 writer in residence at the Iowa Art Museum. An e-chap Coming Apocalypse Attractions has just come out on Gold Wake
By Cheyenne Nimes
A TYPICAL meteor comes from an object the size of a grain of sand. Then the mass of a nail. The mass of a lady’s gold bracelet. To the length of a newborn baby. You can look at it & know nothing else about it. That it casts no light and makes no shadows. Lies curled in its egg. Giant halo of eggs. Wind carries a whiskey breath, reptilian mixed in. It is probably the most basic human fear: getting attacked by a wild animal. It is just there, and it’s not predictable. It’s not foreseeable. It will happen out of the corner of your eye. It’s like a big game. You play games? It’s about gambling & love, an old blues trick. I don’t know him but I know his kind. Sharktooth necklace. He held my gaze with an intense stare. A little light in a straight shot. Red dots mark the meanderings of one. It didn’t follow the rules anymore. Vegas, Baby. Smell of human meat bearing down. Flesh toward bone. The unbroken pan across the skies says it’s only a few cell widths away; rock throwing range. He’ll have no difficulty finding the place. Everyone in this room- & I do mean everyone. Six billion-plus puzzle. The Ranch at the End of the Road. The heart’s continued beating is an involuntary muscle movement. It’s all we know. A floodlight revealed figures in yellow vests clamoring. There is only one answer to it. There is only one way out of this & that is to reach out & grab its hand. Some of you know these things, but perhaps you’ve never put it together: we have good horses, crossbows, giant bones that can be shaped into war clubs. Bowie knife. Cap pistol. Spears & spear-throwers. An overgrown six-shooter, live shells, love letters… an axe, magic, drug of choice. A big-block Chevy engine, canine teeth, or whatever surface is used. As if everything can get reduced to a physical explanation. But my hand shakes. You can have your three days of darkness any way you want to have them. But you cannot lean into sky. You can’t snatch it out. We’re playing way past that now… He has the air of someone tired of pretending. Seersucker suit. Underway toward. Acceleration. Lover’s Leap. After a long silence. Relishing what was clearly a well-rehearsed line. The day of judgment is either approaching or it is not. We could not have far to go.
- - -
bio: 2009 winner of DIAGRAM’s hybrid essay contest, I just graduated from the nonfiction writing program at Iowa. I was a 2009 writer in residence at the Iowa Art Museum. An e-chap Coming Apocalypse Attractions has just come out on Gold Wake
0 Responses
Post a Comment
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
