Kyle Pivarnik's Blog, page 2

Dusk

Like the first nervous tremblings of a caffeine rush, the mouth bitter with the dark of coffee, poised in thought but still in body, another American morning.
The freeways streaked with light, long aperture pupils masked behind heavy lids, a dull craving for idealized vagrancy.
The smell of rotting bananas in a summer hot kitchen, a single fly trapped in a room, glazed eyes watching, too tired to move save for the twitch of a tail.
But moisture. How she hated that word. Too evocative of the decomposition of soil and eager hands clawing into musky underthings.
A neglected garden mistaken for a compost pile, the boring story of a happy man made interesting by his ruin. How we love to watch things topple.
He woke with blood in his mouth, a thick discharge mixed with mucus, that upon spitting left him deeply satisfied.
Crushing eggshells and coffee grounds between fingers, one comes to understand the meaning of organic.
They wanted brown paper meaning wrapped with clever. New things made to look old. And they wanted to feign jaded lest they be judged for enjoying it.
Finding radio confusing, they returned to playing horseshoes.

Untitled Haiku

The pull to gossip
for calamine sympathies
astringent on a sting

Untitled

An equation of picturessliced thin like chemistryslides past billboardsfrom blurred train windowsand concrete walls coated in latrine shadestweakedto the illusion of wonder held in collective longing once found in the weave of fingersor lovers' rearrangementsof hotel furniture

Glow Time

He was tanned, and he was happy. Maybe, he thought, if he maintained such a pigment, he would be happy forever. But he couldn't, and he didn't, his tan fading to the pale of winter before the leaves even turned. He went on about his life, layering his skin and the memories with heavy fabrics, until finally, he found himself again sitting on a beach, a straw hat low on his head, and he smiled for what felt like the first time all year.

Brake Check

            "Excuse me, Sir?"            I'd noticed the girl when I sat down. She was next to another girl talking on her phone.They were the only other people in the auto shop's waiting room. A daytime talk show was on the TV, and I imagined she wanted to change it or adjust the volume with the remote near me on the table.            "Yes?"            I lowered the dog eared book I'd been reading and got my first good look at her. She was pretty, with dark hair worn loose, and her clothes were simple but fit well.             "Sir, have you heard about the Church of Jesus Christ?"            She was holding something, a kind of instruction manual, spiral bound and thick. She had big green eyes that held a trust there you don't see often. She was young, barely twenty.            "I have," I said, lowering his book. I wished she'd leave me alone but knew she wouldn't. Best to have it all out at once.            "Oh!"             She brightened and smiled.            "My cousin's a Mormon." I winked at her, indicating I was in on the secret. She blushed and ran her fingers behind her ear. My cousin wasn't really a Mormon, but I didn't feel like going into the details.            "That's fantastic. So you know a little bit about us then?"            "Yeah, a bit."            I looked at her and wondered if she was wearing the special Mormon underwear. Something like a chastity belt combined with the look of old time long johns that miners wore. She was too pretty for long johns.            "Well, I'm Sister Katherine and this is Sister Lucy."            She straightened in the seat, glancing at her friend who was still on the phone.            "I'm Henry."            "Well…Henry…" she paused before she said my name, as if holding her breathe to cross the threshold of intimacy. I liked the way it sounded coming out of her mouth. "As you probably know, we don't like to push our faith onto anyone, but if you had some time, I'd love to show you our church. Do you practice any particular religion?"            "I'm Buddhist," I said, even though I wasn't.            "Oh," she said. She absently thumbed the pages of her manual, and I wondered if there was a section in there on how to approach Buddhists. I wasn't really Buddhist, but I'd always had a great interest in it.  Sometimes it's better to give a concrete answer than vague indications of spirituality.             She pursed her lips and thought for a moment.            "I've never met a Buddhist before."            I smiled at her, letting my gaze drift down to my book.            "What is it you…um…Buddhists believe?            "Well, you know, reincarnation and all that. The Eight-Fold Path. Basic goodness."            I had a more difficult time explaining it than I thought, but I stumbled through.            "I suppose it could be categorized as both a religion and a philosophy," I said.            "You look like the philosopher type."             "Yes, I suppose I am."            "Is that what you do? Are you a philosopher?"            "No," I said. "Books. I publish books."            She looked at the paperback in my hands.            "Not this one. Though I wish I had. It's very good."            We both smiled.            "So would you like to come see our church. Maybe this weekend?"            "I'm afraid that won't be possible. I'm leaving town soon. Tomorrow actually."             "Oh," she said.            We both went back to our reading. After a few minutes, a mechanic came out and told me my car was ready. I stood to follow him, glancing back at the girl. She was talking to her friend and didn't look up.

How to Be a Man: Chapter One

            By the time Alfred saw the man's body lying in the freeway, it was too late to stop. The front, left tire of his Chevy bore down on the man's head, and though he could have imagined it, Alfred thought he heard a distinct popping noise, not unlike that of biting into an over-ripe cherry tomato.             Alfred slammed on the brakes and pulled over. He sat there in the growing dusk, both hands clenching the wheel, a film of sweat cementing them in place. His foot was still on the brakes, and a country song mixed with static crackled out of his speakers. He put the truck in park and forced himself to look in the rearview mirror. Both his grandmother and his aunt claimed to have run over people, despite all evidence to the contrary. In this moment, he hoped that he was suffering from this same peculiar family trait. But he wasn't. A silhouetted body lay in a growing pool of darkness.             Alfred opened the door with the intention of getting out. He willed his legs to sweep out of the truck, to place his boots on the desert-warmed pavement, but he remained motionless. Perhaps in an act of self-soothing, or sheer muscled memory, his fingers fumbled into his shirt pocket, produced, and lit a cigarette. Alfred looked to the mirror again. His green eyes were hazy and he could see the little red veins in stark contrast to the white around them. His gray hair was greasy, and his thin mustache was surrounded by a growing constellation of stubble. The cigarette burned his fingers, and he looked down at the long line of ash on his jeans. He'd forgotten all about it.            A black SUV careened past in the left lane, oblivious to Alfred and the body. This struck Alfred as particularly callous and motivate him to action. He slammed the pale green door shut and walked over to the back of his truck. He rested his left arm on top of the bed, his right producing another cigarette. It would be fair to say that the body was that of a man, though some might dispute it would be better described as a boy's. Alfred edged closer and bent down. He stretched out a timid hand, taking in a deep breath before actually touching the corpse, as if preparing for a long dive.             There wasn't much left of the head, not to mention the face, so Alfred left it alone. He reached into the back pocket for a wallet, which he found. There wasn't much in it. An expired college ID, a library card, and a debit card. No cash or driver's license. Alfred looked at the picture on the school ID. A pale young man with spiked green hair and a chain necklace around his throat frowned up at him. Next to the picture was the name Zak Hamilton. Alfred looked down at the body. From what he could tell, it was the same man pictured in the ID, though the hair was longer and blonde now. Alfred grimaced as he went through the rest of the pockets. All he found were a guitar pick, a knife, and a zippo lighter. Alfred tenderly collected these things and put them in his own front shirt pocket. He stood up and took a long look at the landscape. It was near enough to night now, and Alfred didn't think there'd be more than a few more cars for the evening. Even slimmer chances of a state trooper. He dug in his front pockets as if he were searching for the options available t him. He didn't have a cell phone, but he did have a shovel. Finally, Alfred sighed, grabbed the boy's legs, and dragged him to the truck.

They've se...

            They've set her photo on the table, and I can't help but feel the weight of her gaze settle on me. Like she's accusing me for being unmoved. I think of the last time I saw her. It was summer and the ground had a frantic energy, as if we'd all abandoned our shoes and started rubbing our socks in the carpet all at once. She acted as a lightning rod, gathering other's static energy and lashing out with it. But she didn't take mine. I kept my distance, unsure of her and disliking her behavior. When the crash finally came, there were reprimands. False but seemingly necessary hugs. When it was finished, I passed her outside of the bookstore. I was carrying the evidence of my entrepreneurial failure in my tin box, and we made eye contact. I spoke to her and gave her a book. With those eyes staring at me today, I can't help but wonder if my book was in her apartment when they found her. They say that the she'd been lying there for several days. That some friends, worried, finally came over and demanded that her door be opened. I wonder if it smelled like death or just like her. If they knew immediately.            Friends of mine worshipped her. They held on to her words like dripping ice cream, unable to hold on to their lingering flavor. Empty calories with no substance. But maybe there was. Something under the surface I couldn't, or refused to, see. I stare back at her eyes and know that there is now. That no matter her stance and words and followers in this life, now she does know something secret. Something mystical. I imagine her on the other side with her tight locks and soft, whispering voice. The sensuous way she said 'fuck' and her righteous outrage. But always in that soft voice, even when the words were hard enough to peel asphalt or rip nails from girders. I look at her freckles, trying to break away from her frozen gaze. How I loved her freckles. The comfort they brought when I could no longer stand what was happening around me. There were always the freckles, dark patches spread like the wings of a day moth. How I could disappear into them and find peace. Take her serious words less seriously.            When someone asks me if I've heard, I tell them I have, trying to fight the urge of conspiracy in my voice. That snarky tone that knowledge sometimes brings. The secret joy of already accessed new information. I try not to say much else, not wanting to betray my true feelings for her. Not wanting to impose my own reaction upon another. To let them have their own grief. But what I want to say is that I don't like her any more or less now just because she is dead. I don't tell them how much I loved her freckles, or how much anger she brought out in me.  I don't share my visions of her sipping coffee down her whisper soft voice and how, now that she is no longer accessible to me, I yearn her secrets.

Lutefisk

I told him I didn't know what lutefisk was, and he said that was ok,because people could just look it up.Except that they didn't.There were too many things to look up,So we went around talking to each otherbut never explaining what it was we were talking about,assuming that everyone else was looking things up,even though we were too busy ourselves,until finally we didn't even know how to look things upanymore,because no one ever explained themselves,and I still don't know what lutefisk is.

Straight On 'Til Morning

I don't know what a killing moon is, but I imagine this must be one. I'm in the sheltered safety of my car speeding directly east, and it looms above me. The color is surreal, a shifting louche of orange, and yellow, with darker undercurrents moving around its curves. I wish I could call my father and tell him to look at it, but he is thousands and thousands of miles away, and I start to calculate how many cups of coffee, sugary pastries, and bathroom breaks it would take for me to get to him. But there are too many, so I let my cell phone remain untouched, nestling further into the crevice of my thigh, slowly wearing two distinct abrasions in my jeans, like a skoal can in a back pocket but more benign. The moon keeps shifting even as I drive toward it, two bodies in furious motion, my own trajectory with a greater number of variables and uncertainties, and therefore less safe. I begin to wonder if I turned around and drove back a few miles, if the moon would still look the same as when I was there last. Or if it would have already transitioned between the trees, then behind the city, and back above the clouds. I wonder if it would have already transitioned to the moon above my father.

Patch

Even his beard was tired, not growing more full but lean, like a tangle of milkweed suckling the last roots of a garden. He'd imagined the hair would grow soft with the passage of time, but it remained wiry, red curls probing out toward the world and introducing themselves to strangers. "People don't trust men with beards," his mother had once told him. "It's as if they have something to hide." But he didn't have anything to hide. No malicious little secrets kinetically waiting to destroy his social life. At least he didn't think so. He weaved his fingers through the tangle, tugged it between two fingers. He angled his chin upwards at the mirror. He thought of a carnivorous plant. A venus fly trap, pink and vaginal, trying to swallow his neck and head whole. To suckle them into its digestive juices. Finally, he took a pair of scissors to it, trimming the hair as close to the skin as possible. He cut too much, and it began to look patchy. Finally, he curled his fingers around a razor and scraped it off. When he lifted his face after, the skin still tingling and dripping with cold water, he thought he looked fatter. Fatter and younger.