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| fig.34.87) the damned, waiting for slack |
The boxes are hastily described with a few hashed markes and a beavers stout trunk emerges. There's a clipped rattle as brushes are dropped into the thin red ceramic cup. The perfect handle is long since broken. There's a lily sitting in the window beside her as the drawer continues drawing. Some grey is added and then the weight of the page shifts. I've known her for a lifetime it seems, she's been my foil. I tell her that I'll be back again soon and Katt nods dismissively.
"Grabbers, not pussy grabbers but the normal kinder kind. The slow moving refugee kind," the old man shifts inside of his long dark cloak. He seems to be a clown but he has a magisterial air. Dyspeptic and out of sorts like an older child with special needs. I should go so far as describing him thusly, he's an august houseplant that's both fat and ignoble of character. His mendicancy, despite his appearance is consumptive unto totality. He goes on, " The kind of trash that are blown around from place to place. Bad people shambling from abuse and degradation until they run into good people like me, the pussy kind of people that grab you with the force of their ideas. Me, I, we, us have all of the political and financial resources in the world, it's ours. We're not a campground and they shouldn't make us mad. They shouldn't make us do this, it's their own fault. If I were them I'd hang it up and go home, nice try but the doors closed hombres."
Back at home I find the jar where I keep my pocket change. I filter all of the coins, the doubloons and the other bits from the gunky rubber bands and paperclips that have gone to waste with them. The plastic buttons and the broken lighters go into the trash. I find a leaky pen that's black and then the phone begins to ring. The trains are moving slowly today. It's hot outside and my t-shirt sticks to my skinny chest. My little belly is round and somewhat nervous without its baby. I reach across the table for the handset. "BOMBshop, this is BOMBshop," I answer loudly.
The small car you've been driving has dimebags lining the speakers in the door panels. You park now and you only have to roll your window down to sell the pot. You reach over me for a cassette tape and place the warm palm of your hand on my thigh. Ride The Lightning, Missy Elliot, neither of us knows what's playing next. Myko calls right before you get here. She tells me that you have a box of plastic and you intend to use it tonight. So when you pull up I want to see it all. I get my jacket and lock the door behind me. The boxes in back of the car smell like they're full of dogs coupling proudly with a pot of paste. There's a glutinous odor that's like sitting with a drunk who's mouth farting their wonder bread lunch.
"As though a poke in the rose ever matters much," Myko's a light skipper in her clean sloop. Set forth upon dim waters she slips between here and there like a fuck that's being served platter after platter of diaphanous and silvery clouds. I dream and I dream until I sit up. It's Tuesday and the summer is terrible. The broom keeps moving around and everyone is stopping by, interrupting us. It's Saturday all over again. A pious time for birthdays and for record parties in the backyard. It's a lovely time for wanton joy. I grab my stapler and hang several long limericks that we've cut out above the doorway. You kiss me and ask if I've ever been pregnant before? I'm over the rainbow and it's not even noon.
The refrigerator opens all by itself. All of the beer won't even fit inside. My black jogging shorts are sweaty. We're still code for the tire fire that's our shared worth and that's being passive. We're all done for now. Walking back outside in the shoes that I've just voted in. All around me, all over me there are keen skies out towards the practical distance. Katt was shortest of them all when she told me, "Out at the furthest reach of space is Evil BUTx... Vile, an absolutely vile shit heel. He resembles you most of all Patsy. I know you," she flattens the short edge of her skirt. She looks at the windows in the big front bedroom and continues. "You'll just smear your shit all over the curb, a muddy gutter trophy for the glass houses above you."
"No, wait we can do this Katt. Let's disappear into the first ward on the edge of the yards. We'll go together. I think you should keep trying. The grey paintings that you painted in here today can get better. I know they can. We can talk about making even bigger ones next time, I promise."
"We speak at each other from inside of our thought balloons. We're here to forecast the greatness of our best limitations, seeing only a slice of this great second of ponderous eternity. As such, we are best of all dumb. We're short beasts of laughter and hatred that have gathered to poach space and wait for the existence to blink out of us. We're not full justice or miracles or even the loneliness that we think we know. We are limited and burdensome pieces of shit, Katt," Myko takes off her shirt and throws it over the end of the bed. "Hair piece, bare tiles and all," she blinks. "This wreck of these streets has never before been known to grow much on its own. How could it?"
After that we talk on the phone about the size of everything. Myko's an enthusiastic eater of sex after all. She's built of crime like a library is full of stacks. She tells me that, she spurns the squalid moral melange of comparative binary rationales left behind by the late nineties. Instead she's nimble and she's smart. She's really into late nights and the seemingly endless particles that will become a beach.
The warble and the weep of a dead bird falling from its sinister perch is like us. We are after song. We are a big fat head, dancing in the trees behind the purple light and the ferns. Before it let's you, you call and it names you, tidy bird. Dance with the beers and with your yearning sex. Gloat and be grabbers of men. With all of the kind windows, drapes and pianos around us lingering flatly here she is, again with the bears. Now she's over there, where the happy distant bees dance. Then under the sloped sand by the lake or by the great tree growing, it's Myko.
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