Okay, Get Started.
As
a water-critter is attracted to the metallic flash of a Coke can, so he is
drawn to Damp Hallucinations. He vomits Stunted Stories based on the paltry
Parlor Tricks his brain plays. Again and again (and again). Macabre poisons
leaking like twists of Black Taffy, blurring like the panic of a slithering
newt dropped into a soft, gurgling garbage disposal. There is a hole in his
brain that leaks 90-proof pus and frames of black and white pornography. His
choppy dreams are made manifest in the tacos he builds but never eats. Tacos
bitter and cheeseless. The blood-red smear on a paper plate reveals a caustic
truth. Salty schizophrenic American vibrations shed iceberg lettuce like the
molting armadillo sheds dry carapace on Arizona macadam. In the end it is the
story and not The Scribe that will survive. And he has polyps.
No good. They are taunting
you. Get Serious.
He
is a Human Carcinogen. A Visiting Nurse came to call on him once and he drove
her away with his noxious flirtations. Trying to get her interested in his
nonsensical Television Programs. He is an accident waiting to be tested and
evaluated. Her name is Alice, like The Goon. She cannot relate to him as he
itemizes his fears but she dutifully writes each one down and down and DOWN. He
likes this one TV show about Inches. It’s about the measurement, that’s all it
is. For hours. But it’s Really Funny, he tells her. It’s called “Inches.” She
tries to give him a smile, standing there in her Blue Gown, holding a Huge Clipboard
pinned with a list of all his insecurities.
I’m sorry, am I
interrupting something?
He
stands in line with five or six Others, waiting in the rain. Nobody talks. It
is too early for mosquitoes but he feels one anyway, stinging his naked arm. He
lets it fill up its gas tank and then he smacks it and is met with a Miniature
Murder Scene. The Color of his Blood makes him grow faint and he gives up his
place in line to sit down on a wet bench. He carries a book about Hiroshima
that has nothing to do with The Bomb. Not even mentioned. He reads it there in
the rain, letting the rain rape the pages. Each raindrop contains a Curious
Face. Yes, the very Weather is staring at him in millions of ways. He folds the
book and puts it back in his pocket to get back In Line.
So what happens next?
A
Church Bell sings through the drizzle. He feels something Strange once in a
While and writes it all down in his Daily Planner. There is no RISK anymore. He
has gentle memories too but they get SHORT SHRIFT in favor of bloodshed and
pestilence and maniacal guesswork. He’s a Thug and a Prostitute.
You’re
wasting my time with this silliness.
Yeah,
I know. Time to hang it up. The End.
