In May 2007, I posted a piece inspired by Robert Olen Butler's Severance. Here's the link to my entry Voices of the Beheaded
Now I've read his latest Intercourse, published by Chronicle Books in 2008. I am so pleased that his work continues to inspire me.
Today I post a short piece of intercourse that is my own imagination engaged in a little Olen Butleresque playfulness, spinning a flash piece that is a complete knock-off of the award-winning writer's ideas. Cheers to R.O.B. He's given us another juicy collection. Before reading Intercourse, I wondered if he could pull it off what he did with Severance. He does. For those of us who tend to get a bit lazy and say things like, "there are no words to describe...", Robert Olen Butler finds the words. He gives us all of the threads of words that are going through a person's head during such moments of heightened emotion such as losing one's head or enjoying orgasmic sex. His collection of stories in Intercourse spans history and reveals what is going through lovers' heads during the act, a decent collection of all things indecent. It's a joy to read.
Here's my addition, two lovers I've chosen to explore in the way Robert Olen Butler does.
The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe 300 and some years old
Old Father Gander 300 and some years old
The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe
Please come in--watch your step around Buzzy's skates, Clara's headless horsemen, and Davy's X Box--I've warned them about tidying up I've given them broth without any bread I've punished them, pet them, and put them to bed You go on and lie upon that Sponge Bob sleeping bag I've spread over the carpet because I'd hate to have to remove our stains but you can remove your own square pants (I hope) and You can relieve me and fill me fill my gaping womb satisfy my desire for more and more children I have an insatiable urge to multiply to give birth to go through these exhausting motions again and again and again my pussy ripped open again and again to push forth new life because I want and want and want to die and let live to rip and let live to give and let live. It is not your seed or more children I want but without an infant to suckle my milkfull moonboobs and a feeding schedule orbiting my body I am a lonely planet; even if They want to put my picture on the cover of Good Shoekeeping and they have they recently interviewed me regarding my steel-toe approach to discipline and my straight lace approach to teaching my infants to read The twins, Mitch and Max, are already through War and Peace, and they're only 24 months old! And they say I don't know what to do. Hah! I know what to do with you I can fit your square pants in my round hole because I am older than Methuselah and menopause means nothing to me
The old nursery rhyme never mentioned me by name, but I'm the one I'm taking credit and responsibility I've spilled seed and can keep spilling Who do you think pays for the mortgage on the shoe Whose investment banker brother got us out of a pinch when we nearly defaulted on the loans because the twins needed reading glasses and Bessie needed braces Rico needed his own wheels and Guy needed golf clubs? The guys at the office wonder how I even find the time to embrace with these late-night hours I pull They don't seem to understand what a no-nonsense organized woman you are They don't seem to understand that your prayers to the Divine Mother are always answered and your ovaries have an endless supply of eggs My colleague, Father Christmas, has been trying to get his old lady pregnant for centuries They've even tried the high octane fertility clinic--those classy health care cafes that are popping up on every corner like Starbucks these days But he kept shooting blanks and then she started giving birth not to children but to elves. I love every one of our wee ones and I intend to send them all to college too because I intend to make one thousand dollars for every last sperm I spill to honor every last tiny one, even if the poor fellow never had a chance to penetrate The Egg