Cut away the curds of fat that hold the intestines tight to the muscles of the spine. Excise the diaphragm from below. Split the sternum. If your blade gets lodged in bone, hammer the hilt with the flat of your hand. Sever the esophagus, remove the lungs. These are pink-yellow and can be squeezed like a sponge. Watch them go sucking back to their native shape.
The heart looks exactly as you would expect it to. Cut away the blood vessels. Hold it in your hand - this engine of the body, fuel pump for muscle and bone, nerve and organs. Seal it in a Ziploc bag.
You may also put the liver in the Ziploc, if you intend to eat that too.
Leave the entrails in the snow below a fallen log for the racoons, possums, coyotes, turkey vultures. Watch them steam. Watch them sink like warm rocks through snow melting red around them.
...
How To
Hold the doe's head in your hands. The pupils are immense, black as stones underwater, now clouding over with a layer of white. The tip of the tongue hangs from the corner of the mouth, dripping blood into the snow. The blood steams. Let it wash over your bare hands.
It is wet, and your prayer is still warm.
Christopher Mohar - 'Communion' Gastronomica 11:4, 2011
Showing posts with label gunslingers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gunslingers. Show all posts
24.2.12
5.1.12
and will have to answer the call on my own.
✴ I did not sleep hardly at all last night, and when Warm returned this morning I formally agreed to take part in his expedition to the River of Light. I am convinced now of his genius, and though I am loath to abandon my post I have elected to follow my heart and do just this. What am I living for, after all? I look upon my past with disgrace. I was herded and instructed. But I will be herded and instructed no more. Today I am born anew, and my life will be my own again. It will be different ever after.
Patrick DeWitt - The Sisters Brothers
Patrick DeWitt - The Sisters Brothers
26.10.11
23.11.09
9.8.09
and you will know me only now
by my IP address.
digital reincarnation renders one quite unrecognizable from fleshy whence-we-came, the speed of discard and re-habitation for purposes of mental outsourcing steal karmic hands from the universe-dealer now demoted to barkeep, thumb-twiddler what with reverence being ol' fashion n'all. 01101100 01100001 01110111 don't apply 'cept i makes it. we's all bandits, ain't none friends seein' how's all up for conquerin' tuh them there fellers with the dern biggest external hard drive.
showdown bang! mass hack-icide, none left alive.
identity clotheshorse-thief, who are your neighbors on such a scattered frontier? this dimension designs itself for immortality, your friends numbered voyeurs: shifty-eyed protectionist faux-lebrities with guns in their boots. remember turning the earth, the heat of the sun, the taste of another, pre-pixilation underived; obsolescence from a time before we all died and didn't notice.
the universe polishes another glass, pours a tumbler of what's passin' for drink nowadays, and sighs as the hazy RGB ghost sloshes the fermented ale of dead blogs down its gullett, 01100110011011110110000101101101 stuck to its .giff face, 56% loaded and moving jerkily. yet since all's free now, the ghost don' like to pay none and leaves only a virus on the bar, much to the instantaneous likes of the other wasteland patrons.
one too many times, thinks the universe. time, he thinks, reaching underneath the bar for the muslin-wrapped weight of the dull and ancient knife, swiftly gliding it across his throat and blinking the desolate blackness out, taking all but silence, compressing it all back into the smallest infinite mass, heavy beyond measure.
digital reincarnation renders one quite unrecognizable from fleshy whence-we-came, the speed of discard and re-habitation for purposes of mental outsourcing steal karmic hands from the universe-dealer now demoted to barkeep, thumb-twiddler what with reverence being ol' fashion n'all. 01101100 01100001 01110111 don't apply 'cept i makes it. we's all bandits, ain't none friends seein' how's all up for conquerin' tuh them there fellers with the dern biggest external hard drive.
showdown bang! mass hack-icide, none left alive.
identity clotheshorse-thief, who are your neighbors on such a scattered frontier? this dimension designs itself for immortality, your friends numbered voyeurs: shifty-eyed protectionist faux-lebrities with guns in their boots. remember turning the earth, the heat of the sun, the taste of another, pre-pixilation underived; obsolescence from a time before we all died and didn't notice.
the universe polishes another glass, pours a tumbler of what's passin' for drink nowadays, and sighs as the hazy RGB ghost sloshes the fermented ale of dead blogs down its gullett, 01100110011011110110000101101101 stuck to its .giff face, 56% loaded and moving jerkily. yet since all's free now, the ghost don' like to pay none and leaves only a virus on the bar, much to the instantaneous likes of the other wasteland patrons.
one too many times, thinks the universe. time, he thinks, reaching underneath the bar for the muslin-wrapped weight of the dull and ancient knife, swiftly gliding it across his throat and blinking the desolate blackness out, taking all but silence, compressing it all back into the smallest infinite mass, heavy beyond measure.
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