at a Cocktail Party
was born too aggressive, with an ax and a full set of teeth. But since
then Iíve taken up tai chi and I refuse red meat. I have mastered bio-feedback,
shutting my eyes and counting to ten, throttling a sponge-like ball
that says LIFE in big blue letters. When my bloodlust gets really bad,
I chop trees.
the Ryanís party, the urge gets really bad. I am smiling at the limp
noodle conversation and wishing for a big seal club. I excuse myself
and go to an empty room bristling with watercolors of our hostess naked.
Gazing out the window, I admire the war green of their holly trees,
berries like the entry-holes of arrows. I do not want my friends to
know I am biting my fingers. Is it possible to scream without letting
on that I am? A song perhaps?
donít know any song past the first couple of misstated lines. I walk
to the buffet table, greedily eye the autopsied chicken and julienned
vegetables. Itís all too much. I creep to the fuse box and turn out
the lights. An intruder! I shout, and then begin screaming and throwing
friends bleat like sheep and stampede out of the darkened room. I throw
elbows left and right, get in some good solid rabbit punches, and as
well bite someoneís forearm. Then theyíre gone and itís only me. While
I beat myself up, I think of craggy hills and burning oak.
Finally, I emerge into the lightened room
where my friends are waiting.
ďHeís gone,Ē I tell them.