The horizon is pink. There… wasn’t a horizon before.
With maybe, maybe, maybe ten minutes left I find myself in a place of utter perfection. Listen—there are no other voices, no traffic, no wild birds spinning irregular songs all over the goddamn evening trees. There are no trees, either, only the wood of the box.
I am Law, unto myself. Anything I wish to do, I do it, and there is no outcry. If I want to move my ankle four inches to the left, the electric pulse splashes down my nervous net and there, see, it has moved. Nobody has a war about it, nobody screams the injustice of it to the stone face of a city hall. If I want to blink, I blink with impunity. That I won’t be able to breathe soon is no injustice; it is a fact of the world.
I swear there was no horizon before, but it gets brighter with each passing second, and I think there are silhouettes against it, walking.
Would you like to expand your lungs and take in the stiff cloud of carbon dioxide yes—yes, I would, and I will. Certainly I will accept the erection; it presses painfully against the lid, but all remains peaceful. No woman comments upon it, no man sneers lewd. They cannot cuff me any longer, not in this country.
I am isolated by a vast ocean of soil, on all sides, and my stratosphere is lined with grass I imagine. Pink grass, maybe, caught in the pink of sunset. The smell of blood is mine, a free thing, unrestricted by amendments or court orders. Yes the broken fingernails hang loosely; they are as free as children crossing a deserted street, utterly unaware of the roaring milk trucks just… over… the horizon…
Not even Farneman can wreck his dictatorship upon me now. This is my valley of lilies, and in my valley of lilies there is one single law: peace. Whatever you choose to do, God is with you in that choice, and the only government that runs runs silently from behind a silken curtain. If I want to flail my limbs wildly against the confines of the box, snap a toe, or
beat!
my!
forehead!
bloody! then I am free to commit such silly exertions without the faintest fear of persecution. There are no Jesus Christ’s here, and all the wood (world) wood is on the outside, so nobody could make a cross anyhow.
It seems really silly, now, that I let Farneman’s decision bother me at all. That was back in a place full of rules and consequences, and oxygen; the rule was easy, SHE IS HIS, NO YOU MAY NOT LOVE HER, and the consequences burn in my gut right now. Maybe, maybe five minutes tops.
But wonder of wonders, signs and portents! Look at me now. Fucking-A, my friend. Here comes the pink horizon, and those are not screaming horses or a clash of ballistae or clarion trumpets brassily in the light but only, only, only my people. Serenity. If I want to look at the glowing face of my watch, and ignore the hot spears in my chest, I may do so without passing a motion or lobbying for the majority vote. We don’t need that kind of thing here on the horizon.
I will sew a flag, lastly. The colors will be of blood, and shit, and radium. I’ll raise it to the stillness, the eye-popping stillness, the throat-squelching silence. The pink nether-sun light shall stream through it, make it glow with calm, something to watch through the night, through the bombs bursting in flight, the… rocket-red hair… the… something… still there… proof…
Oh Silvia. I love you. Please dig me up.
22.1.09
"Spirits"
She mixes a good drink. I line the bottles up on the bar, tallest to shortest, like I did that very first night in this apartment. The glass gets five ice cubes--consistency, ritual. Are witch doctors so precise? I have to be, because unlike a shaman shaking rattles around a fire, I lack the soul to run by feeling alone. I have no tradition of this. Just the remembrance of that first night, and all its recreations thereafter.
I pull off my tie; cross the room; touch the needle to the record; recline on the sofa with a week-weary arm tossed over my eyes. Sure, I have an iPod, but she doesn't like that. I tried it, on the third week, and she stayed away. Or stayed quiet. I suspect she never actually leaves.
My eyes close under the spell of Nina Simone singing "Wild Is The Wind." Halfway through the song I smell a now-familiar perfume, faintly, almost a timid scent. I keep my eyes covered, a game of hide and seek. When the song reaches its climax I open my eyes and the glass is full, the bottles slightly emptier than before. On the second week, I had peeked early, peering through laced eyelashes, and the bottles never moved. The glass simply filled, slow like honey.
The song ends. Her perfume grows stronger, and then more—an accompaniment rises, notes of real human flesh, suggestions of breath. An invisible hand on my cheek. I go to the bar, stand there and drink, and feel the kisses along my jaw, the nape of my neck. A warm arm snakes around my waist, holds me upright. She tips the glass higher, coaxes every last drop, and briefly the ice clinks to rest on my lips.
I setup a different assortment of bottles, place a fresh tumbler on a dry paper napkin. Lie down again. We do this all evening, all Friday night. "Wild Is The Wind" over and over and over. As each drink settles into me the room gets dimmer; the light from the lamps turns softer; objects once solid grow more malleable. I begin to see the outline of her, the long hair, the slink of a dress; and through it, beneath it, loose limbs that move like honey.
Every weekend I go another shade further. I believe tonight I will stumble into the bedroom after three easy, holding onto the nearly-tangible. There will be eyes of colorless glass searching my own. My sheets will conform to the curves of her hard thighs, will resist her small breasts, will belie the whole sweet volume of her. I will wonder, as always, why the lottery of fates has placed me on this floor, in this apartment, at this time. I will be ready for her to love me—or at least whisper a name. I will play this drowning game.
And then I will blackout.
I pull off my tie; cross the room; touch the needle to the record; recline on the sofa with a week-weary arm tossed over my eyes. Sure, I have an iPod, but she doesn't like that. I tried it, on the third week, and she stayed away. Or stayed quiet. I suspect she never actually leaves.
My eyes close under the spell of Nina Simone singing "Wild Is The Wind." Halfway through the song I smell a now-familiar perfume, faintly, almost a timid scent. I keep my eyes covered, a game of hide and seek. When the song reaches its climax I open my eyes and the glass is full, the bottles slightly emptier than before. On the second week, I had peeked early, peering through laced eyelashes, and the bottles never moved. The glass simply filled, slow like honey.
The song ends. Her perfume grows stronger, and then more—an accompaniment rises, notes of real human flesh, suggestions of breath. An invisible hand on my cheek. I go to the bar, stand there and drink, and feel the kisses along my jaw, the nape of my neck. A warm arm snakes around my waist, holds me upright. She tips the glass higher, coaxes every last drop, and briefly the ice clinks to rest on my lips.
I setup a different assortment of bottles, place a fresh tumbler on a dry paper napkin. Lie down again. We do this all evening, all Friday night. "Wild Is The Wind" over and over and over. As each drink settles into me the room gets dimmer; the light from the lamps turns softer; objects once solid grow more malleable. I begin to see the outline of her, the long hair, the slink of a dress; and through it, beneath it, loose limbs that move like honey.
Every weekend I go another shade further. I believe tonight I will stumble into the bedroom after three easy, holding onto the nearly-tangible. There will be eyes of colorless glass searching my own. My sheets will conform to the curves of her hard thighs, will resist her small breasts, will belie the whole sweet volume of her. I will wonder, as always, why the lottery of fates has placed me on this floor, in this apartment, at this time. I will be ready for her to love me—or at least whisper a name. I will play this drowning game.
And then I will blackout.
"The Golden Rule"
There were three lines handwritten into the front of the little Bible, in pencil:
dew hon 2 udders
asp yew wood half
Dem due hunter U
Susan smiled to herself—she knew he thought himself clever. That did nothing for her faith, however, and she pulled off her choir robe lost in the thought. The bedroom's sanctuary breathed around her without a soul.
Weeks ago, she and Bryan had escaped the eyes of the world long enough to answer a year's worth of questioning; and in that small, dark window Susan found what the book in her hands had never offered: an identity entirely her own.
"Dah-da, dah-da, dah-da... crimson and clover..." she whispered tunefully as she folded the robe, remembering the song that greeted them when the car started again. Bryan had passed trembling fingers through her long, red hair, and crowned her beautiful.
But that was afterward. Half an hour before, he had been tentative and tacit. Her face had been aglow with the eldritch light of the moon, and he spoke of his disbeliefs: that they were here, now, in such intimate circumstances, in such violation of the laws of their lives.
"You're lucky," she'd replied, striking a tone that had never before left her lips. It took him aback, she remembered, and a sudden doubt had crossed his eyes.
Susan closed the dresser drawer, completely forgetting to stow the robe inside; the satiny garment lay folded atop it, careless as an abandoned water glass, leaving its own sort of ring in the surface of the day. She sighed, leaning against the wall, and stared into the thick, vague images of her memory.
Vague, but volatile.
Vague, but vital--things one dares not let go.
"You are not taking me home until I'm good and ready," she had breathed into his ear, and already condensation had blotted the moonlight. Bryan had started to move away from her then, but Susan would have none of it, grappling with him instead, long enough for resistance to weaken, for resolve to fade. Long enough, she thought, to falter and fall.
Just then, a knock at the door pulled her out of her reverie; Susan's mother stuck her head into the room. The small crucifix hanging above the door rattled slightly, as it always did.
"Honey? Are you not dressed yet? We're having supper in about five minutes. Do you want some?"
"Um, sure. I'll be down in a few."
"I think your jeans are in the dryer, do you need me to bring you a pair?"
"No, I'm just going to wear these," she replied, grabbing a rumpled pair of flannel pants from the bedside.
"Okay.”
The door clicked shut, and the new sense of self—wary as a kitten—crept back into Susan’s room. It carried in its mouth the words once wicked to her, now spoken so easily and without any genuine shame. It rubbed against her, the first inklings of instinct saying this is my territory, this body is mine. She thought of Bryan’s skin, and the unseen muscles moving beneath it all.
“…as I would have you do unto me,” she whispered, drifting to earth, and prayed her mother would not look in a second time.
dew hon 2 udders
asp yew wood half
Dem due hunter U
Susan smiled to herself—she knew he thought himself clever. That did nothing for her faith, however, and she pulled off her choir robe lost in the thought. The bedroom's sanctuary breathed around her without a soul.
Weeks ago, she and Bryan had escaped the eyes of the world long enough to answer a year's worth of questioning; and in that small, dark window Susan found what the book in her hands had never offered: an identity entirely her own.
"Dah-da, dah-da, dah-da... crimson and clover..." she whispered tunefully as she folded the robe, remembering the song that greeted them when the car started again. Bryan had passed trembling fingers through her long, red hair, and crowned her beautiful.
But that was afterward. Half an hour before, he had been tentative and tacit. Her face had been aglow with the eldritch light of the moon, and he spoke of his disbeliefs: that they were here, now, in such intimate circumstances, in such violation of the laws of their lives.
"You're lucky," she'd replied, striking a tone that had never before left her lips. It took him aback, she remembered, and a sudden doubt had crossed his eyes.
Susan closed the dresser drawer, completely forgetting to stow the robe inside; the satiny garment lay folded atop it, careless as an abandoned water glass, leaving its own sort of ring in the surface of the day. She sighed, leaning against the wall, and stared into the thick, vague images of her memory.
Vague, but volatile.
Vague, but vital--things one dares not let go.
"You are not taking me home until I'm good and ready," she had breathed into his ear, and already condensation had blotted the moonlight. Bryan had started to move away from her then, but Susan would have none of it, grappling with him instead, long enough for resistance to weaken, for resolve to fade. Long enough, she thought, to falter and fall.
Just then, a knock at the door pulled her out of her reverie; Susan's mother stuck her head into the room. The small crucifix hanging above the door rattled slightly, as it always did.
"Honey? Are you not dressed yet? We're having supper in about five minutes. Do you want some?"
"Um, sure. I'll be down in a few."
"I think your jeans are in the dryer, do you need me to bring you a pair?"
"No, I'm just going to wear these," she replied, grabbing a rumpled pair of flannel pants from the bedside.
"Okay.”
The door clicked shut, and the new sense of self—wary as a kitten—crept back into Susan’s room. It carried in its mouth the words once wicked to her, now spoken so easily and without any genuine shame. It rubbed against her, the first inklings of instinct saying this is my territory, this body is mine. She thought of Bryan’s skin, and the unseen muscles moving beneath it all.
“…as I would have you do unto me,” she whispered, drifting to earth, and prayed her mother would not look in a second time.
"We don't see Things--we see where Things are."
Two ancient atoms of the sun
by chance, by law, crushed into one:
thus was my lover’s face begun.
A sea of waves of light
that rolled millions of miles last night,
that reached us, always reaching us
on the run:
bathing all and saving none.
And when that sun-tide struck her cheek
it turned to leave, ricocheted, it spun:
honey-colored lengths of light
like braided hair undone.
They fled her cheek and came to me,
weightless strands invisibly,
until my widened iris took them
in as refugees:
caught them in the cones and keys,
deciphered all their beauty.
O reticent and mirrored mores
revealed in windows of the soul:
my heart sends forth its softest soldiers
there to guide you home.
* * *
If ever I speak dark of love
only moonshine knows whereof.
by chance, by law, crushed into one:
thus was my lover’s face begun.
A sea of waves of light
that rolled millions of miles last night,
that reached us, always reaching us
on the run:
bathing all and saving none.
And when that sun-tide struck her cheek
it turned to leave, ricocheted, it spun:
honey-colored lengths of light
like braided hair undone.
They fled her cheek and came to me,
weightless strands invisibly,
until my widened iris took them
in as refugees:
caught them in the cones and keys,
deciphered all their beauty.
O reticent and mirrored mores
revealed in windows of the soul:
my heart sends forth its softest soldiers
there to guide you home.
* * *
If ever I speak dark of love
only moonshine knows whereof.
"9-5"
There exists a time of night—in unassuming cities, in high suites—when the glass windows are black, and the cool fluorescent light from fifteen feet above takes away all sense of time passing, and everything aches with the glow. It gets deeply silent. You realize you are in a pocket of something… not so warm as eternity, not so grand as forever. Maybe just the opposite; maybe there is a set of hands on the back of the clock. That time of night, there might never be another morning. There might never have even been a dusk. The world becomes fully contained in the vast subway car of the room, with its green velvet couch and flat surfaces, and squares. You find yourself reminded of semi-formed childhood memories, incidents when you were still tiny enough to be carted around on your mother’s shoulder, maybe some random night—there was a telephone call, she had to pick him up, she couldn’t leave you alone. And so she popped the cotton cap over your soft head, grabbed her keys and drove to some office where your father had been working overtime plus. Car dealership lights; that’s what these are, fifteen feet over my head. And it must be nearing two-ay-em, but it feels like this night is never, ever going to cease.
The hangover is not a hangover. It is not the coke sputtering out, either; I rode that particular wave down before midnight. Maybe it’s the blood loss? Oh, you think? A lagoon has formed on the tiles, which are off-white and black. And red all over. But no, no… He made damned sure I was active before he left, or at least tracking toward transformation.
I had a wife, once. How many losers and psychopaths have milked that little factoid about their lives? There is no life to this town—we are all morticians, and the floor-to-ceiling windows let you look the corpse over. There are so few lights to see…
Nothing bad happened to my wife, by the way; she packed the dog when the drug moved in, and left when the entourage arrived. That was the crowning achievement of my 1986, and one year later I am essentially dead. Hold the lilies and luncheons, though. This is only my first step to recovery.
The v—the devil who bandaged my canary’s wing goes by the name of Tobias Lofton, president and founder of SolTech Industries. He has a Spanish air about him, by which I mean he hails from Madrid. My corporation officially sold itself into his loving, tender care four months ago; my corporation, which he proceeded to suck dry of all its former identity, used to manufacture mirrors for General Motors. Anytime you looked behind you, we were there, closer than we appeared. Ha.
Then Lofton swooped down in that ghost-white Learjet, with his hypnotizing accent and Shakespearean goatee. He partied with us, brought his entourage along, sharing the spoils of his international war on Other People’s Profits. Papers were signed, strippers were paid, and mid-grade cabernet flowed like tokens from the loosest slots in Vegas.
Right now, as I gaze across myself sprawled on the counter here, sitting awkwardly, half-in the kitchenette sink, it still makes the same sort of perfect sense that earned my CEO’s signature on the death warrant. Did we know we were cattle? Do you think cattle know that they’re cattle? And this… tick… on our ear, this tick that turned out to be a monster from the underworld, how long did he stalk us? How much due diligence would have satisfied him, this being who leaves nothing up to chance, who has nothing left to fear and no watch to wind any longer? I wish he had at least explained that to me. My corporation was probably just a midnight snack, but hey—he set me up for life, so maybe I should quit my crying.
My shredded chest and splintered sternum are putting themselves back together again. I wish I could videotape this; give a copy to my doctor as a farewell present. My health insurer, too. They’ll never see another dime of mine. In about… oh, another hour… my eyeteeth will fall out, and the new ones will grow in, the retractable ones. Lofton said to prepare myself for the first time I use the bathroom—what I see in the mirror won’t be what everyone else is seeing. He emphasized that I should keep a photograph of myself somewhere secure, like in a safe deposit box. Many copies, he said, in many different boxes. Then he said, with the most haunted facial expression I have ever seen, that he wishes someone had invented cameras when he was young. From the way he spoke, I guess I reminded him of himself, or at least of what he can remember.
Despite my earlier ruminations, there are no hands on the back of the clock. Lofton said swaddling myself in enough blankets and sheets ought to hold me until sundown, until I can make better arrangements. Then he will return, with his entourage, and we will speak of the future in the language of sharks.
I wish my ex-wife could see me now. She will, soon, probably on television. I never imagined I would have a “rise to fame”, but he swears it will come, and not just as a face. Real power. I am climbing the Jacob’s ladder—or at least walking the rungs of its shadow. They are leading me toward seven figures. Do you hear me? Seven figures! And I am going to make partner, baby, if it’s the last thing I do.
The hangover is not a hangover. It is not the coke sputtering out, either; I rode that particular wave down before midnight. Maybe it’s the blood loss? Oh, you think? A lagoon has formed on the tiles, which are off-white and black. And red all over. But no, no… He made damned sure I was active before he left, or at least tracking toward transformation.
I had a wife, once. How many losers and psychopaths have milked that little factoid about their lives? There is no life to this town—we are all morticians, and the floor-to-ceiling windows let you look the corpse over. There are so few lights to see…
Nothing bad happened to my wife, by the way; she packed the dog when the drug moved in, and left when the entourage arrived. That was the crowning achievement of my 1986, and one year later I am essentially dead. Hold the lilies and luncheons, though. This is only my first step to recovery.
The v—the devil who bandaged my canary’s wing goes by the name of Tobias Lofton, president and founder of SolTech Industries. He has a Spanish air about him, by which I mean he hails from Madrid. My corporation officially sold itself into his loving, tender care four months ago; my corporation, which he proceeded to suck dry of all its former identity, used to manufacture mirrors for General Motors. Anytime you looked behind you, we were there, closer than we appeared. Ha.
Then Lofton swooped down in that ghost-white Learjet, with his hypnotizing accent and Shakespearean goatee. He partied with us, brought his entourage along, sharing the spoils of his international war on Other People’s Profits. Papers were signed, strippers were paid, and mid-grade cabernet flowed like tokens from the loosest slots in Vegas.
Right now, as I gaze across myself sprawled on the counter here, sitting awkwardly, half-in the kitchenette sink, it still makes the same sort of perfect sense that earned my CEO’s signature on the death warrant. Did we know we were cattle? Do you think cattle know that they’re cattle? And this… tick… on our ear, this tick that turned out to be a monster from the underworld, how long did he stalk us? How much due diligence would have satisfied him, this being who leaves nothing up to chance, who has nothing left to fear and no watch to wind any longer? I wish he had at least explained that to me. My corporation was probably just a midnight snack, but hey—he set me up for life, so maybe I should quit my crying.
My shredded chest and splintered sternum are putting themselves back together again. I wish I could videotape this; give a copy to my doctor as a farewell present. My health insurer, too. They’ll never see another dime of mine. In about… oh, another hour… my eyeteeth will fall out, and the new ones will grow in, the retractable ones. Lofton said to prepare myself for the first time I use the bathroom—what I see in the mirror won’t be what everyone else is seeing. He emphasized that I should keep a photograph of myself somewhere secure, like in a safe deposit box. Many copies, he said, in many different boxes. Then he said, with the most haunted facial expression I have ever seen, that he wishes someone had invented cameras when he was young. From the way he spoke, I guess I reminded him of himself, or at least of what he can remember.
Despite my earlier ruminations, there are no hands on the back of the clock. Lofton said swaddling myself in enough blankets and sheets ought to hold me until sundown, until I can make better arrangements. Then he will return, with his entourage, and we will speak of the future in the language of sharks.
I wish my ex-wife could see me now. She will, soon, probably on television. I never imagined I would have a “rise to fame”, but he swears it will come, and not just as a face. Real power. I am climbing the Jacob’s ladder—or at least walking the rungs of its shadow. They are leading me toward seven figures. Do you hear me? Seven figures! And I am going to make partner, baby, if it’s the last thing I do.
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