Purple IV
by Ann Bogle
Gage's feed reappeared in mine late the night Ned died face down. Purple not rain! I guess Prince left. It is said that Prince owned the aquifer under Jordan, Minnesota, and that he sold it but to whom? And moved to Canada—if so, does it explain why the water became average to the taste, rather than best, from the United State with most miles of shoreline? I am not very oui about it, except beauty of the lakes. My native land shores its own excellents at the poverty-line—joiner bunnies who wear a collar and limp around the yard in search of a family, domestics in the wild. I will miss you! I respect your shyness. I would propose a reunion of Houston's heart. Invite Judith to consume what I print from my P.C. Kat I can hoist here or levy myself there, cater sun-dried tomato artichoke enchiladas with salsa verde and choice of meat: crawdad, oyster, anchovy, or clam. My next car: Cadillac with sleek ashtray liner.
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I like the idea that because it's no longer Prince's water, it suddenly becomes average. As though celebrity ownership of the water source is intrinsic to the flavor.
Land of 10,000 lakes and not a good drop to drink. The water metaphor fits perfectly to your loss.
"Cadillac with an ashtray." And as they use to call it, a cigar lighter. It would all be vintage.
Stream of consciousness's interest depends on the consciousness on display, contents thereof. This is tops.
Yes, to the Caddy. But Prince left Minnesota? Say it isn't so! ***
Ownership bleeds into everything, doesn't it?
"till, I would propose a reunion of Houston's heart. Invite Judith. She could consume what I print from my P.C. Kat I can hoist here or levy myself there, cater sun-dried tomato artichoke enchiladas with green sauce, choice of meat, oyster, clam, crawdad, anchovy. My next car: Cadillac with a sleek ashtray liner."
Well voiced piece. Good writing.
Very oui about this.
*
Thanks, readers of this short snap. Another story called "Time" that Bob Spryszak published in Thrice Fiction reminds me of it:
http://fictionaut.com/stories/ann-bogle/time
I'll set it as non-private, once "Purple" is off mainpage.
http://fictionaut.com/stories/ann-bogle/time--3
Love this and "Time", too. Riveting in the best possible way. *
Rereading tonight is difficult since I had rewritten the first sentence, to read more correctly. I realize in writing it so soon after Ned died that I had required without being able to arrange it to see my women friends who live or lived in Houston -- suddenly then.
See Rachna Kulshretha's "eat, love, pray"
http://fictionaut.com/stories/rachna-kulshrestha/eatlovepray
My comment there and here:
Simple, good (natural) (not-God) bunnies in your North Texas yard. Bunnies here very near Minneapolis are returning this month to seeming a little more free almost wild. Earlier this spring, the (mostly two) bunnies at the side of the house, between two apartment houses that are side-by-side 50s-era duplexes, looked like outdoor pets, plump, full-furred, eating iceberg lettuce leaves that the beautiful (when her eyes were not wild with fear or grief) 40-or-so neighbor left for them. As a semi-fiction writer, last year, I tried to mention yard bunnies in [this] a very short piece, and I needed to rewrite that sentence several times. Did the bunnies last year lope around the yard as if wishing to be wearing collars, as I felt about it, since they were acting slow and confused about domesticity, not fucking like proverbial rabbits and breeding nor running (dashing) across a deeper residential street toward safety among the trees? Here, it is a little more city than it is eight miles west.
http://fictionaut.com/stories/finnegan-flawnt/why-i-write
My comment there:
I'll be in love with this poem at least for the rest of today. I love its gold emphases. And gold in it is not money. Gold was geld. The title as I had learned in researching this a little is after the German style: Initial letter of first word capitalized and nouns capitalized (as usual) and since it's English the first-person singular pronoun is capitalized. It is Whitmanesque. (I noticed after I had noticed that for myself that others above suggested it is like Ginsberg and Steinbeck, causing it to be even cooler.) I spoke to a bunny the other day. I made a joke to a bunny about a bunny. Now the bunny visits near my front step, and I gave it organic stale carrots to eat, and I tossed it expensive orange tiny tomatoes, yet untouched by the bunny. I realized that all speech is writing even to a bunny and that thought may even be writing as in: "I hope I did not hurt the bunny with my joke about a bunny to a bunny" when then the bunny came to my front step again. I am sharing this bunny anecdote here because the loving in this poem/manifesto reminds me of it. *