Justin Stone's creekbed

songs, prayers, poetry, stories, art, photographs, moving pictures, fondnesses, tall-tales and meditations

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Location: missouri, el paso

The Anterior Insula and Hwy W

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Spook Knee

That’s throwing me out with the bathtub.
That’s throwing bathwater on the baby when the baby is still in the bathtub.
That's suddenly remembering you left the water running on the other side of the world.
That’s throwing up in your bathwater.
That’s throwing a cast-iron butterfly to its freedom.
That’s giving indian nickels to the cowboy banker.
That’s drinking your bathwater after the bath.
That’s your baby throwing you out with the trash.
That’s the Midnight Town that had the Sunlight Blues.
That’s shooting a movie in your sleep and not finishing it.
That’s throwing the bathtub into the yard where your car already is.
That’s putting an oven-mitt on when the bathwater’s too hot.
That’s looking up when it’s raining and opening your mouth.
That's throwing the shine out with the apple's eye.
That’s your baby drawing you a bath in the evening.
That’s studying amateur ethno-botany in your post-adolescence.
That's reading the writing on the water.
That’s throwing stones at a bunch of babies.
That’s saying it was fun while it lasted knowing that it didn’t last very long.
That’s taking the Beverly Hills housewife out of the sports utility vehicle and assuming you have taken the sports utility vehicle out of the Beverly Hills housewife.
That's throwing the letter from your best friend out with the junkmail.
That’s a bathtub full of mirrors.
That’s a three-legged race across a tight-rope.
That's a movie no one can see or hear.
That’s taking a bath in Greece.
That’s throwing a party for a baby on somebody else’s birthday.
That’s getting in a bath you drew last year.
That’s throwing me out with your senses.
That’s taking a bath in a glass house.
That’s writing Son of Blob: Little Blob and then grossing a worldwide box office of only 300 million dollars.
That’s a bathtub made of dirt and bathwater made of rocks.
That’s throwing accusations out with the mirror.
That's water pooled up on a duck's back.
That’s dancing on the moon with no slippers.
That's taking a bath in somebody else's clothes.
That's throwing the kit out with the kaboodle.
That’s spinning your wheels in the mud and turning the stereo up.
That’s looking in a mirror and seeing a glass house in your left eye.
That’s getting struck by a bathtub when you’re walking down the street.
That's falling asleep under water.
That's babies making noises and thinking they're some kind of genius.
That's standing in an open door but being unable to move.
That's remaking Steel Magnolias with an all male cast.
That’s throwing your bathtub into the yard where your brokedown car already is and then digging a hole in the ground, bringing the hose around from the back to fill the hole and take a bath but then falling down and forgetting what you were doing.
That’s a baby explaining to you the finer points of taking a walk in the rain.
That’s waking up the day after your funeral.
That’s throwing the frying pan into the ocean when you’re in the fire.
That's a thousand little dream of fish.
That's a face coming in low over the water gathering wind and speed as it reaches land and suddenly becoming your own.
That’s throwing up in a baby’s mouth.
That’s believing everything you say.