06-19-2026, 03:36 PM
On Counting With Your Toes
Quentin Tarantino is a famous ghoul for feet. He cast Uma Thurman
just to have her get those piggies wiggling. When he sleeps, it is of pink
arches and pummeled soles, their velvet leather supple under the tongue,
that Quentin dreams. This of course is common lore, the stale kind
good old boys can still take home in plastic bags like festival corn, in which
we’re all complicit—we love that we can watch Pulp Fiction or Kill Bill,
see the grumpy Negro bug his eyes out and deliver lines like And you will know
that I am the Lord! which is funny because, yes, everyone does know and what they know
is God is dead and white. This is what I’d planned to tell you on the date
we didn’t have the night you died. Your scalp flew through the air, came down
soft like snow drops on parked cars. Even Sonny Chiba couldn’t laugh.
At the morgue, the corpse face painter doesn’t look a lick like Pam Grier, but does seem
to have her thighs, I think to my most turgid self, feeling naughty in the shadow of grief, as is
my established habit. Wiggle your toes if you can hear me up there, would you
love? Today it makes a little cold precipitation and I catch the first flake on my tongue,
which hardly even bleeds. I guess that really was a Hattori Hanzo sword.
`
Quentin Tarantino is a famous ghoul for feet. He cast Uma Thurman
just to have her get those piggies wiggling. When he sleeps, it is of pink
arches and pummeled soles, their velvet leather supple under the tongue,
that Quentin dreams. This of course is common lore, the stale kind
good old boys can still take home in plastic bags like festival corn, in which
we’re all complicit—we love that we can watch Pulp Fiction or Kill Bill,
see the grumpy Negro bug his eyes out and deliver lines like And you will know
that I am the Lord! which is funny because, yes, everyone does know and what they know
is God is dead and white. This is what I’d planned to tell you on the date
we didn’t have the night you died. Your scalp flew through the air, came down
soft like snow drops on parked cars. Even Sonny Chiba couldn’t laugh.
At the morgue, the corpse face painter doesn’t look a lick like Pam Grier, but does seem
to have her thighs, I think to my most turgid self, feeling naughty in the shadow of grief, as is
my established habit. Wiggle your toes if you can hear me up there, would you
love? Today it makes a little cold precipitation and I catch the first flake on my tongue,
which hardly even bleeds. I guess that really was a Hattori Hanzo sword.
