From the forthcoming novel I’ll Be. Gaudio’s work has been published in Exile Literary Quarterly and Rampike. He was born in Calabria and lives in Toronto and at claudiogaudio.com.
Ihardly shake, except after people, so why the itch for the two-legged beast, for Bob, in particular. Everything is so much more interesting when I talk to my television, or a sandwich. That’s me in a robe, now we’re a threesome, the sandwich, me, and the TV, in case you’re not following.
I’m always ready to do the town, from my little oasis, my Costa Concordia, there are heroes in every catastrophe, but in Italy they go to bed early. I’ve pinned all that I have, all that I am, to my chest to keep it from falling, and I’m sunning myself by my ankles. I don’t mind the horizontal, or the upside-down, for that matter, here it’s the dancing that kills you.
Sunday mornings I watch nature shows, hunting and fishing, advertisements mostly, from the Deep South. Slim pickings I guess, accountants in battle fatigues have been lying in wait since the mid-fifties. There’s nothing better than carrion to bolster the love men feel for each other. Hence the double barrel to shoot down a duck, excessive, in my view, but opinion is never opinion enough when discussing a massacre. There’s the kill, of course, but the skill is in the tracking, or the carving, but perhaps I’m confusing the wetlands in Georgia with the Sudan. I don’t deny the similarities but ducks have wings, for example, and the Sudanese are always in season.
Evening has come to where I am, but I don’t speak for New Zealand. What’s important is that I’m alone
with my television. CNN is reporting from both sides of its mouth, there are ways and ways to say nothing, but surely they can get a little what’s what past the sponsors. I like faking it as much as the next gal, and so did Shostakovich, because he didn’t want to die, but as far as I know Washington is not killing journalists, not here, anyway, and no one who works for Ted Turner has ever been waterboarded.
Say everything, is the first rule of broadcasting, I agree, obviously, to know a word is to use it, but not every word is a tool or a weapon. Nietzsche, for example, thought his pen was a hammer, but he may have been mistaken because German professors rarely did their own carpentry. Which is a good thing because if that man could build we’d all be in cages.
Anderson Cooper can’t get a word in edgewise in the program I’m watching, there just isn’t enough time to summarise all those assertions. Bombing children is necessary, or unforgiveable, it depends on who’s talking. Talking, not doing it, is the thing they can’t manage. Death will preserve their innocence, carbon struck, as in oil or a diamond, the children we kill are not ready for prime time.
Still, I prefer the meaningless bustle, the news will only prolong disaster, and it’s corrupt. Talking is how everything slips through my fingers, how I empty a room. I need that which never was, and so I will never have done with conjecture, this swill