Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Cupid

The little boy wants bigger wings, but his mother's hiding them in the cookie jar. He could break it with his arrows, shoot love for the chips into the ceramic so it hugs crumbs to death. But then she would find out, see the abandoned shafts on the floor and have to sweep them up with her giant broom, sighing the whole time. So, he hatches a plan for the angry flying turtle to carry him to the top of her universe-wide refrigerator. He offers the tortoise its favorite vegetables and to teach it how to say the alphabet. Thousands of years and it still couldn't read a newspaper or even spell. After it agrees to help, Cupid rides the shell upward, gives nasty looks to the toaster, heating up affection, and the blender, creating another dangerous obsessive cocktail of lust that ought to be marked poison. The boy's tiny arms accidentally collide with the drink, and it's spilled all over the earth. So, while Cupid is enjoying his bat wings, pretending to be a super-hero, the whole planet suffers compulsive desire for things they can't have: a partner who can look her in the eyes and be true, a lover who doesn't reach for a thesaurus in his brains for words he says mean "love" but only represent a body wrapped around a body, a chest hot and ringing like a fired gun.

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