I wrap my arms around you. My fingertips into your spine, biceps fuse with your sides. Years pass. My bones become your bones, become ours. We frighten children while grocery shopping, get a monthly check from the government for being too gruesome to hold a job. We are inseparable until the grave.
3
When you turn out the light, a beam of image projects over my face, my body. It is a fractal of each member of the species considered “your type.” The image conceals my flaws, your criticisms and previous hesitancies. I sleep, unaware I have become a screen for what you have left behind.
4
I left a thousand page book called I Can Do So Much Better on your bedside table. I wrote it myself. It is the only copy in existence. You turn to the first page and read:
Because you flare your nostrils when you’re lying, because you flare your nostrils a lot, because you take shits after showering and forget to towel off your ass, because I taste chemicals when you kiss me, because you need to shave your unibrow four times a year, because you lose the remote control in the refrigerator, because you leave empty orange juice containers inside it, because with each breath you demand something I cannot give.
The Lunch Date
Adolf Hitler tells me that I look beautiful. This unsettles me. I do not believe him. I feel like he is flattering me so I’ll agree to swallow his racially pure sperm cells.
I bite down on tonight’s main course. It is juicy. It is Adolf Hitler’s eyeball. It tastes like nasal decongestant. I try to stop myself from gagging. I try to stop myself from gagging while Adolf Hitler bites down on his other eyeball.
I vomit Adolf Hitler’s chewed eyeball back into the serving tray. I am afraid of offending him and getting sent back to the camps, so I conceal my BLAAAAGH by pressing a button that detonates a nuclear missile over Adolf Hitler’s outdoor patio.
We sit calmly in our garden chairs, flesh melting off our bodies.
Adolf Hitler asks, “Vill you pass the vine?”
I don’t know how much longer I can listen to Adolf Hitler’s bad German accent without getting really really annoyed. And Adolf Hitler wouldn’t like me when I’m really really annoyed. I hurt people’s feelings when I’m really really annoyed. I say mean things like, “Hey, Adolf Hitler! Why is your stupid face so stupid looking?”
And . . .
“Hey, Adolf Hitler. Your mom’s so Jewish that she worries incessantly about your health.”
And . . .
“Hey, Adolf Hitler. Your Hitler mustache looks even worse now that you’re a living skeleton.”
But I don’t say any of these things. I am only a little annoyed at Adolf Hitler’s bad German rather than really really annoyed. So I say, “Of course I’ll pass you the wine, Adolf Hitler, sexual dynamo. Please don’t send me back to the camps.”
I pass Adolf Hitler the jug of wine. My nose slides off and falls into it. Adolf Hitler grabs the jug out of my hands and drinks before I can warn him about my severed schnozzle. Adolf Hitler is now choking. I do not want Adolf Hitler to die.
I secretly love Adolf Hitler. I secretly love Adolf Hitler and I don’t care what you think. If I had to choose one person to pump Zyklon B gas through my elegant dual shower head, it would be Adolf Hitler. I would clutch my throat knowing that Adolf Hitler loved me, knowing that he cared.
Adolf Hitler gasps for air. I stop visualizing the wedding dress that I’m going to wear on top of our wedding cake and go all Heimlich Maneuver over Adolf Hitler’s ass.
It is very sensual.
My nose flies out of Adolf Hitler’s mouth. It lands on Adolf Hitler’s trampoline. The trampoline lifts it up into the sky. My nose falls down through blood-covered clouds. It lands in Adolf Hitler’s mouth. Adolf Hitler is now choking.
Heimlich Maneuver. Sensuality. Trampoline. Sky. Clouds.
Adolf Hitler is now choking.
Heimlich Maneuver. Sensuality. Trampoline. Sky. Clouds.
Adolf Hitler is now choking.
Heimlich Maneuver. Sensuality. Trampoline. Sky. Clouds.
Adolf Hitler is now choking.
And our lunch date never ends. While I give Adolf Hitler a perpetual Heimlich Maneuver, we marry, grow old together, and move to Boca Raton to spend our retirement. Eventually, Adolf Hitler is murdered by a mob of senior citizens.
Time to Eat
The clocks sizzle in the boiling sun. The man is cooking breakfast. He is unaware that the clocks are being overcooked. Their texture will be runny. The man’s day will be ruined. He will have no time to do his errands and enjoy the pleasures of his free time. It is 8 AM but now the sun will set in ten minutes, resulting in night and extreme cold. He is not prepared for this cold. One of his errands was to buy a coat and a warm blanket. The man uses a spatula to remove one of the clocks and takes a bite. He says, “Ick!” Ten minutes pass and the day turns to night.
The Ghost Parade
The ghost parade felt angry because the writer was supposed to write a story about it. The ghost parade marched through the writer’s bedroom. The writer woke up. He was very afraid. A ghost parade was marching through his bedroom. He called the ghost parade busters, but the ghost parade busters did not answer the phone. The writer was existing in the wrong movie. The writer told the ghost parade to march out of his bedroom. But the ghost parade did not listen to the writer. The ghost parade continued to march in his bedroom. The writer called out for his cat. The writer’s cat trotted through the door. The writer told his cat about his predicament. The cat invented a machine that was supposed to scare away ghost parades. The cat turned the machine on. The machine shot screaming infant projectiles at the ghost parade. The ghost parade was really scared. The ghost parade marched out of the writer’s bedroom and into his bathroom. The writer was glad he didn’t have to urinate. The writer went back to sleep. His cat filled out a patent for the machine that was supposed to scare away ghost parades. The cat became a multimillionaire. He wanted to share his wealth with the writer, but the writer was asleep. Now the writer and his cat belong to different economic classes. They are ok with this.
The Study
A secret passage will open if you remove a book called Cellular Metabolism at Fifty Degrees Celsius. The designer of the library thought no one would want to read a book that sounded so boring. The designer of the library has not been inside the study. He has never been inside anywhere. He loves nature. The secret passage leads into a woman’s womb. After a secret passage seeker is ready to leave the woman’s womb, he will exit the womb. The exit of the womb is located in a place that is different from the study. It is a place where the secret passage seeker has always wanted to live. The location of the place is different for each secret passage seeker. When a secret passage seeker enters a secret passage, they choose to leave a place they dislike for a place they assume they will like. But there is no returning to the old place if they don’t like the new. There is no book called Cellular Metabolism at Fifty Degrees Celsius in the new place. There are no books there that open secret passages.
A Texas Cowboy and His Pal, The Genie, on Vacation
for Micah Malmstrom
Bermuda is nice this time of year. A Texas cowboy doesn’t like it as much as his pal, The Genie, because he refuses to take off his Stetson hat. Underneath his Stetson hat, synchronized swimmers synchronize stab him in the head with toothpicks. The Genie giggles each time the Texas cowboy yelps. The Genie is cruel. The Genie staples men’s hands to the ceiling whenever they omit the The in her name. The Genie is not a good pal. The Genie is a false pal. The Genie has forced the Texas cowboy into paldom. The Genie has locked the Texas cowboy in the world and hidden the key on a keychain with all the keys in the world. The Genie shouts into the Texas cowboy’s ear. She says, “Let’s go out tonight! Let’s sunbathe tomorrow! Let’s drink piña coladas out of pine cones!” But the Texas cowboy does not want to go out. The Texas cowboy does not want to sunbathe. The Texas cowboy does not want to drink piña coladas out of pine cones. The only thing the Texas cowboy wa
nts to do is lie underneath the covers in their hotel room and try to unlock the world with the infinite keychain. The Genie hopes he will find the correct key. She is afraid of leaving the hotel room by herself. She is afraid her dreams will collapse onto themselves and turn themselves inside out and get flattened by a herd of wild buffalo and become a Twister mat for the morbidly obese.
The Architects of the Dismantling
for J.A. Tyler
The Earth is scheduled for dismantling at 8 AM on Monday. The architects spend a lot of time preparing for 8 AM on Monday. Their blueprints are comprehensive. Their blueprints are beautiful. The architects make a lot of sacrifices to produce blueprints that are comprehensive and beautiful. They sacrifice meals, sleep, organized work spaces, family time, grooming habits, and clock-watching activities. Without clock-watching activities, they deny themselves the pleasure of counting the ticks until the end of the world. The architects are looking forward to the dismantling. They will finally have enough time to do all the things that need to get done.
Archeologist
I can feel the walls closing in, feel their primitive technologies driving them to invade my personal space, sharpening their death-inducing spikes, weeping over my nuclear microwave and emotion-suppressing spike I throw into a pit of ravenous gators, shoot a grappling hook at the ceiling and knock a hole into it with a puncher, lift myself to the next floor...young, clean, community college, fedora-wearing, telemarketing investment banker type banana helps me up. I am evidently its idea of a lucrative financial opportunity.
The amateur archeologist wants to come on hip...Talks about “golden idols” and gets high off curses now and then, and keeps some around to offer the fast racecar driver types.
“Thanks, chiquita,” I say, “I can see you’re one of us.” Its peel lights up like a self-immolating monk.
“Never liked walls much. Always getting in my way. The ones down there are due for a metamucilshot.
“Ever see a metamucil shot, chiquita? I saw The Tarzan Kid catch one in Liberia. We trapped him in the monkey house and charged a pouch of Hannukah gelt to watch it. Cut with metamucil and the junk is too gooey to be cooked with anything but a nuclear microwave. That’s why I like to carry one on my head. The Tarzan Kid didn’t have the financial means. Tried to shoot up the goo but his rig looked like a sticky foot. His veins weren’t having it. Had to vacuum the China White with his nose. Stopped to pick the goobers out every two seconds. The zoo visitors pointed and laughed at the disgusting habit. He shot diarrhea out of his sinuses for two weeks. Passed the time by carrying a monkey on his back and trying to suicide himself with vines. Only succeeded at swinging back and forth across the enclosure. Probably cursed the day he aaaaa-aaaa-aaaa-aaa-ed into my ear wishing he was high enough to know better.
“Recollect when I am traveling with Complainer, worst fella to get stuck with in the galaxy. We is working the artifacts at a Mayan ruin. One night he turns to me and says: ‘I can feel the walls closing in, feel their primitive technologies driving them to invade my personal space...Hated that the first time I read it. But the only other stories I could get my mitts on made my brain drip in ennui. So I read it again. And again. And again. Still hated it. But there was something about it. Something that kept me coming back. To give it another chance. Twenty times in and I loved it. Felt like it was written especially for me. Was nonsense before but it made more sense than any other story. Over ten years later and I read it again. Felt like I was reading it for the first time. Felt like I was our pal The Rube. Like the I can feel the walls closing in guy was pulling a con. I yanked the wool out of my eyes. Smelled like it hadn’t been washed in a decade plus.’
“So I says: ‘Since when you concerned with personal hygiene?’
“He just looks at me and says: ‘Fill your hand stranger’ and yanks a rocket launcher out of his anus and I hightailed it out of there, rockets decimating the walls of history. And he goes to a cafe and sends his meal back 47 times before the fuzz nail him. I mean the Complainer earned his moniker.
“Ever notice how much slang carries over from archeologists to women’s studies professors? Like ‘boopiting,’ letting someone inject your eye yolk into their iris.
“Stomp on him!
“Stomp the Lethological Kid giving that mark the scalp shine.
“Smooth Operator whittling him down to the skull.
“The Cherubic Kid say: ‘Once I swiped The Screecher’s commemorative spoonful and threw it in a pot of boiling water. He didn’t want to waste the shot. Gave his spike a helping of the boiling water. Only thing it did was turn his insides al dente. Went back for seconds. And thirds. Kept sending the plunger down towards his veins over the next couple o’ months. Water level in the pot went down slowly. Organs turned to rancid pasta. Got bored with his arm and gave his foot a turn. Hit something vital to his walking capabilities. Had to hobble on one leg to the stove. Didn’t even realize he was junk sick the whole time. Called it my spaghetti cure. Sold it to Doctor Benway. Walked in while he was shredding evidence. Made him jumpy. Accidentally cut a few strips outta his patient’s brain. Interested in what would happen if he stitched them back in the wrong place. Patient woke up thinking he was a panda ice cream spatula. A life altering experience that.’
“Well,” I said, tapping the hieroglyphics, “duty calls. As one loathsome specimen said to another: ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do except repeat my advice over and over again til it loses all meaning.’”
I hear a rumble and shimmy to the side of the chamber. A giant boulder makes a pancake out of the banana as the fruit pretends hideous laughter.
Swell. One less ripe imposter to get between me and my prize: a ceramic pot. The swellest ceramic pot on this scorched planet. I’m always telling Igor at the hock shop: ‘Don’t pay me in money. I can’t shoot money.’ If the legends are true, I’ll never have to see his pox-ridden face again. They say the temple’s ceramic pot contains a limitless supply of H. I could give up thieving and live it up in Morocco. Maybe settle down with an Arab boy named Kiki. Sell a bundle or two to pay for a white picket fence.
Goddamn. Wish I hadn’t stepped on that stone. Goddamn. Bug-eyed creature pops outta a basket: “It’s a trap!” Watch the stone descend, looking like a primitive elevator for holy rats. Makes a sound like polished slabs of concrete scraping against each other. I hear it in my nightmares. A Mugwump statue shoots a legion of arrows into my chest. Hope I can find the ceramic pot before I need to scream...nope.
Caterpillars and Watermelons
for Mike Barrett
Caterpillars ponder watermelons. Watermelons kiss caterpillars. Caterpillars pour petrol over watermelons. Watermelons get to second base with caterpillars. Caterpillars immolate watermelons. Watermelons resurrect on the third day. Caterpillars penetrate through watermelons. Watermelons propose to caterpillars. Caterpillars eat watermelons. Watermelons digest inside caterpillars. Caterpillars excrete watermelons. Watermelons point shotguns at caterpillars. Caterpillars marry watermelons. Watermelons crush caterpillars’ hopes and dreams.
A Headless Man Falls in Love with a Bowl of Rice
for Nathan Tyree
The headless man is eating dinner. He feels his life is incomplete. His tears dribble out of his neck wound and major organs rain down on a bowl of rice. If the rest of his organs rain down on the bowl of rice, the headless man will stop feeling his life is incomplete. He does not want this. The only way to save himself is to make his life complete in a different way. He must use a method of hunting and trapping the missing piece rather than not feeling anything at all. The headless man has determined the missing piece is an emotion. An emotion that has been reserved for a person who is not the headless man. An emotion that will fit into his soft tissue. But where will he hunt and trap this emotion? Women are repulsed by his incompleteness, men are likely to react to it with violence. He contemplates this conundrum. He stops contemplating. He looks down at the bowl of rice with longing. He looks down at the b
owl of rice, regretting all the pieces he has left behind.
The Time Traveling Giraffe Defies God
The time traveling giraffe has had enough. His head hurts from hitting the ceiling too many times. He opens his mouth and swallows himself. A time traveling giraffe from another time opens his mouth and regurgitates the time traveling giraffe with the sore head. God shapes Zimbabwe with his fists. The time traveling giraffe taps him on the shoulder with his paw. He says, “Excuse me, sir. Can you please give giraffes shorter necks and pogo sticks? It would make me happy.” God shakes his head. The time traveling giraffe is angry. He bites off God’s ear. God continues to shape Zimbabwe. The time traveling giraffe continues to suffer head pain.
In the Restaurant
The waiter brings you the most delicious lasagna known to man. Baked with all your favorite foods. Served on a supernatural plate. Pulsating with energy rendering this eclectic clash mouthwatering rather than stomach-churning.
You transport a forkful to the bottom of your nose. The aroma makes your nostril hairs tingle. You take a whiff. It reminds you of picnicking with your sweetheart on a summer day. You prepare yourself for the first nibble.
Sorry I Ruined Your Orgy Page 4
