I hold the biscuits in front of his face and he stands up. "What do I have to do?" he says. "Nothing, " I say. "They're for you." "Are they poisoned?" he says. "No, " I say. "Eat one, " he says. So I do. "Probably the others are poisoned, " he says. "Eat a fraction of each." I eat a corner off each biscuit. He looks at the reminders suspiciously, then sniffs them. "I'm not sure it's worth it, " he says. "How I wish you'd never come. Perhaps you've left the poison off of just those corners." I begin to realize I'll doubt whatever information he gives me. "Lick the entire biscuit, " he says. "Then give them to me." So I lick each biscuit. "Both sides, " he says. I lick both sides of each biscuit. I give him the wet biscuits and he cracks them open and sniffs them. Then he puts them in his pocket. "What do you want?" he says. "Now that you've failed to poison me to death.
No hawk swooping down upon his prey, no stag improvising new detours by which to trick the huntsman, no dog scenting game from afar is comparable in speed to the celerity of a salesman when he gets wind a deal, to his skill in tripping up or forestalling a rival, and to the art with which he sniffs out and discovers a possible sale.
Honore de Balzac
I KNOW I CAN'T GIVE IN MY POWER WEAKENS FEAR SNIFFS AND GRABS AT ME JUPITER DEEP JUPITER DEEP WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU CAN JUDGE WHAT COMES OUT OF MY HEART? HOW DARE YOU I HEAR YOU LAUGHING MY ANGER IN FULL BLOOM BETTER HANG UP THE PHONE BEFORE I ACT LIKE YOU DO WHY WOULD YOU DISSECT MY BLOOD? TO PROVE THE BUTTONS YOU PUSH WORK I'M MADE OF TIN
She Keeps Bees
Tyler rolls out of bed, sniffs the armpits of yesterday's T-shirt, tosses it aside, gets another out of the drawer. His dad sometimes asks him why he sets his alarm so early - it's summer vacation, after all - and Tyler can't seem to make him understand that every day is important, especially those filled with warmth and sunlight and no particular responsibilities. It's as if there's some little voice deep inside him, warning him not to waste a minute, not a single one, because time is short.
Katherine is the master of anger; she dominates anger. She takes anger in her hands and twists its neck, ripping its head off. She throws anger against the wall and stomps it to death. Her voice rises, it changes, it conjures up ghosts and cusses in a spitting Irish brogue. Then, when she's tapped out empty, she picked anger up between her a thumb and a forefinger and carries it outside and drops it in the trash. On her way back, she scoops up forgiveness like a bouquet, sniffs it deep and arranges it in a vase. She sets forgiveness down, shining in the middle of everything.
I GOTTA FIND MYSELF SOME GLUE I GOTTA FIND SOME NOW MY AIM IS I GOTTA FIND MYSELF, I GOTTA FIND MYSELF I'M A DRUNK MOTHERFUCKER I'M A SMACKED OUT LOVER AIN'T NO ONE TOUGHER I'M A DICK, I'M YOUR MASTER I'M A ROCK N ROLL DISASTER I'M A PUSHER, I'M A SHOVER I'M YOUR DIRTBAG LOVER I GOT TO DEAL WITH MY NEUROSIS I GOT TO DEAL WITH MY NEUROSIS I GOTTA FIND MYSELF SOME LOVE I GOTTA FIND MYSELF SOME DRUGS I GOTS TA SNIFFS MYSELF SOME GLUE I GOT TO FIND SOME TURPENTINE FOR YOU..YOU YOU YOU... I GOT TO FIND MYSELF
Loss invites reflection and reformulating and a change of strategies. Loss hurts and bleeds and aches. Loss is always ready to call out your name in the night. Loss follows you home and taunts you at the breakfast table, follows you to work in the morning. You have to make accommodations and broker deals to soften the rabbit punches that loss brings to your daily life. You have to take the word "loser" and add it to your resume and walk around with it on your name tag as it hand-feeds you your own shit in dosages too large for even great beasts to swallow. The word "loser" follows you, bird-dogs you, sniffs you out of whatever fields you hide in because you have to face things clearly and you cannot turn away from what is true.
It's only sixteen ninety-five, " I say with a flutter of my lashes. "You're serious." I prop my hands on my waist and stick out a hip, striking a pose worthy of a supermodel. "Look at me. Don't I look serious?" She collapses into the chair outside the dressing room in a fit of giggles so cute they make my insides fizz. "No! You must be stopped, " she says. "Why?" I strut down an aisle of yellowed lingerie, swiveling my hips, batting bras with flicks of my fingers. "I will be the king of the disco. I will be-" I spin and strike another pose. "An inspiration." She sniffs and swipes at her eyes. "The real Dylan would die before he'd be seen in public in something like that." "The real Dylan is boring." I brace my hands on the arms of her chair and lean down until our faces are a whisper apart. "And he's not one fourth the kisser I am." "Is that right?" Her lips quirk. "You know it is." Her smile melts, and her breath comes faster. "Yeah. I do.
Red Fox The red fox crosses the ice intent on none of my business. It's winter and slim pickings. I stand in the bushy cemetery, pretending to watch birds, but really watching the fox who could care less. She pauses on the sheer glare of the pond. She knows I'm there, sniffs me in the wind at her shoulder. If I had a gun or dog or a raw heart, she'd smell it. She didn't get this smart for nothing. She's a lean vixen: I can see the ribs, the sly trickster's eyes, filled with longing and desperation, the skinny feet, adept at lies. Why encourage the notion of virtuous poverty? It's only an excuse for zero charity. Hunger corrupts, and absolute hunger corrupts absolutely, or almost. Of course there are mothers, squeezing their breasts dry, pawning their bodies, shedding teeth for their children, or that's our fond belief. But remember - Hansel and Gretel were dumped in the forest because their parents were starving. Sauve qui peut. To survive we'd all turn thief and rascal, or so says the fox, with her coat of an elegant scoundrel, her white knife of a smile, who knows just where she's going: to steal something that doesn't belong to her - some chicken, or one more chance, or other life.