Roy Buck

Functional Decomposition

fiction
I stand outside a bar on the corner of space and time. Alfred Hitchcock is in black and white riding a Wizard of Oz type bicycle making faces at me.

A man, damned, jammed, high in a Tokyo tower breaks through the window that cradled him. An eye glistened, a singing bowl whirled, as he fell in fetal position yelling like a lawyer in court.

Petals stream off my arms, orchids stem from the sidewalk, my silhouette in the beautiful yet mud-stinking spring is cast upon the glass of the Wolf River. Sandhill cranes squawk and scream above me.

While on my deathbed in spring, a bird shit upon my forehead. Ancient good luck is what the Montana Chief stated.


Youth Memoir

fiction
The red room with red italian leather couches, the chandeliers, dining room outside, the white shag carpeting–over an inch tall–seventies style Vegas eating a grilled-cheese after kindergarten when I saw President Reagan being shot on T.V.

The green room, shag lima bean green carpeting, the seventies, belly dancers I wasn’t allowed to see, wine, bourbon–laughter, hysteria, love, an unquiet mind–glasses clinking above a bar made out of bowling lanes. Adults speaking in riddles

In my bedroom: floating heads at the foot of my bed. The radio turning off and on by itself, television like a poltergeist and an unknown woman who walks by my window at night. Sometimes old ladies, late at night would lift me in the air–like the game “light as a feather,” until I hysterically cried.

On my sister Lara’s white door is a poster from Madonna’s “Like-a-Virgin” tour. The virgin now has a moustache and a Manson swastika on her two-dimensional head.

Upstairs, there’s a den. I forget the color of the carpeting–but know it’s over an inch tall.

I filmed a ghost up there, on my black and white Fisher Price. I still have the film, locked in a safe in the basement.

The basement, or cellar, has no carpet. It’s very cold and damp. The crawl spaces down there are perfect breeding grounds for black-widows.