THE CAT EATS in the kitchen under a small table. Hoa taps softly on a Mac keyboard. Outside the full moon promises much luck but produces little by way of net gain. I drank beer and whisky with friends tonight. Then K and I dried clothes at the laundry-o-mat. Many people crowded the place. The air was heavy with humidity and detergent. Keaton played with a penny. He flipped it and laughed, it falling many times to the floor. I practiced invisibility. No words for anyone. Instead I withdrew into a stony cavern of silence except for what attention I could spare my son. Car lights zoomed in the windows, leaving bright traces on silver droplets beading the glass. I have a secret list of heroes. I don't live in a heroic age. It's an era of crippled minds and ass-kissers. Only a dick can misunderstand me. My heroes are fascists and degenerates, wicked debauched creatures who inhabit the darkest bordello of my mind. Go out in April wind, cool air in jasmine and the chimes ringing in a bank of star jasmine. Go inside and there find the black stone too. Beat black bruises on pulsing blossoms, a spoon-full of piss poured in a pint of blond beer. Visit a vomitorium for a week's respite. Barf larvae into leaf-etched goblets then hang and gibbet up a candied corpse. Flies buzz in its cheeks, gasses explode. You know you want a bite. Take one with me. Let's just do it for once. Get it over with. Gorge and puke it all out and feel great about it.
Posted by Dale at June 4, 2004 05:21 AM