I am working on my speech for the Young Columbus contest. My body is bent over at my childhood desk with the recalcitrant superhero Z slashed n the middle. I have completely refrained from looking across the neighborly gulch at the college girls next door since she squeezed my hand at the library. I am writing about England. I am thinking about the crazy week I just had where I got into my first fight. I am wearing my Manual Cross-Country jacket that my mom hand-sewed for Christmas and boxer shorts. Beth and Jen are working on dance moves from their incumbent production of MUSIC MAN down at Roosevelt in the living room I have just brewed another pot of coffee. Dawn Michelle has not returned my last three phone calls. I am scratching into the page. I am tattooing sentences that I hope to verbalize in front of a bevy of local dignitaries with the belief that hopefully, if I am somehow good enough, my words will emotionally coerce them into granting me this trip of a lifetime. I can still smell Aron Rothman’s stale breath on my shoulders which for some reason smells like he ingested rancid sardines and a shot of strychnine for breakfast. The shadows of the college girls sail past next door. My new room is directly across from what I perceive to be their bathroom, and occasionally, even though the window is tinted in a foggy bouquet of nautical swirls, I make out smudged silhouettes entering the nearsighted square that is the bathroom window, tugging at the center of their bodies before releasing themselves in a Pilates position. When they are showering the window fogs up in a boll of cumulous. I am staying focused. Dad is still going off claiming that Coach Ricca’s missive is the greatest epistle since something published by Paul in the New Testament. He comes into my room and tells me that I should really read it since he gave me two copies.
I am working on my speech. I am seriously contemplating dropping advanced algebra at end of the semester come two weeks time. I am writing about England. I am envisioning Big Ben blowing up like a rocket. I imagine seeing the refurbished Doc Marten show box of Parliament, the subtle gild of Buckingham palace; witnessing black taxis and double decker buses from every corner of my vision. I keep on writing. I wonder if the contest this year will have a celebrity local DJ like John Williams the year before who confessed that the selection of the winner was the hardest choice he ever had to make in his life.
It is hard for me to write while wearing the identity bracelet that Renae gave me. For some reason it never occurs to me to wear it on the opposing wrist. While I write I am listening to Depeche Mode, a song I have never heard before. The song is jarring. It sounds like a metallic bible
has just been spoon fed through a recycling bin that has gone haywire and is
malfunctioning. Like other songs there is an synthesized Chinese water torcher
that seems to echo a bleep out of nowhere.
It is judgment day and the finale of time, entropy in a video game.
Everything is collapsing. The song sounds like an introit to an illuminati
ceremony in which infant sacrifice is somehow involved, a cowl being draped
over the looming refrain of the chorus. There is hypocrisy and rebuke. There is death
without a holy hint of resurrection. There is questioning the Superman of
scripture. There is defeat. There is the hallowed resonance of an empty tomb in
which Superman has never been placed inside.
The song is scaring the shit out of me. Burrowed within the droning cosmic intonation of the chords I see the song rising, forming laser lights, forming a psychedelic nimbus shaped like a bipolar Homunculus Nebula, a galactic socket-configured keyhole to some other world. In the center of the astronomical cornucopia I see England. I see Princess Di. Every time Princess Di blinks tears skid down the side of her benevolent cheekbones. I am falling through molecular chasms of open space. I am floating over England. I am certain that if I can go into a certain Church I have never seen before in a river town and hold up Shakespeare’s skull I can shake it like an eight ball and I will be told the secret of the universe.
The song continues.
There is a suicide letter. It sounds like someone is playing the xylophone on a racket of vacant paint tins. It sounds like someone is sawing off the neck of the proverbial swan-song saw with the serrated bow of a cello. There is life and then there is new life and then there is a funeral dirge in the key-signature of an aluminum gurgle. The sound of lug nuts chirping like crickets when in a second I hear her, it is lil' Betsy, she is laughing, she is calling me Charlie, she is jumping in tandem to the goth cogs of the song on the edge of my bed before getting up. She is beckoning me to play. She is kicking the note cards of what is surely my award-winning speech across the room where they rise before hitting the carpet in the shape of origami doves, where they flap, where she is telling me to chase her, where she is striking the side of my body and saying the word tag, where she is asking me the truth about whatever happened between myself and Dawn since her older sister doesn't talk with her anymore. When I look out my window
across the house again in the nautical swirl of the bathroom window it looks like I am looking out of an airplane. I am seeing England. The lushest pastoral broken continental puzzle chipped off the locomotive continental land mass that is Eurasia. I am wallowing in the epistemological snythed-chimes of the lyrics and I am floating across an atomic mine-field I am chasing Betsy. She is laughing. She is kicking the side of my shin. She is telling me that everything around me is being destroyed with a thang and a thimper. She is telling me that this is the nature of the universe. That everything we thave thever thown will no longer be here. That everything is transitory and enveloping in on itself. That the flesh of the body is a sarcophagus of ash.
As I hover in the direction of the vernal square I look back at my room. Somehow at the moment of death heading in the direction of the comforting life is deceitful chicanery. Betsy is performing cartwheels across a tattered red cloth and I look back even though I know it is perilous. Even though it is not the direction I should be aiming. Princess Di is still crying even though I can n o longer see her. My entire bedroom begins to melt in a clod of detritus. Everything is descending. Everything is crackling. The sky is melting into a nuclear frisson. It is Armageddon. Military arsenal have nose-dived into the middle of the street and are erupting a plume of ash and smoke. His red cape has been severed from the back of his neck. It looks like a menstruated bib. He is frail. Lois Lane is pining for help. She is holding up her hand. She is telling Jimmy Olson to quite chronicling this calamity via the stout of a lens. Even in the Armageddon strewn dregs of Metropolis I am still in the music room. I am still listening to Depeche Mode.
He is a jealous God.
The city is crumbling in dyslexic chomps. With every hit there is an echoing yelp reverberating
for miles. Superman is being ploughed with fists engendered out of intractable stalactites. The city is seismically bobbing up and down. Shards of glass in fractals and reflective triangles strewn the metropolitan avenues. Superman is fighting. His cape clawed and lost in the nearby detritus. He is hurling his fist in an all out apocalyptic brawl for six hours straight. He was exhausted four hours ago when he drained up all his solar heat vision for the brief moment when the Justice league was still on their feet. He is fighting and she is above him, wearing her sexy designer European
sunglasses. He has held her close and told her no matter what, he has told her
that he will always somehow be with her,
she is doing her job as a reporter just as he is doing his.
Doing his job by dying.
Betsy is running past Superman. She is giggling. She
runs through the spiked-aperture of Doomsday’s thighs like she is scavenging
for Easter eggs at a Sunday school playground in spring. I am trying to protect
her. I do not want her to get hurt. I don’t not want her to experience the inevitable pangs of life.
Betsy is laughing. She is telling me not to take things in life so seriously which, because of the nasal inflection of her lisp, Sounds like the word th’eriously. Thife. I run into the middle of my battlefield bedroom and try to hold Superman up only fucking acne-riddle Jimmy Olson looks at me informing me that this is not my fight.
Somehow Superman is fighting over Manual. The classrooms of the teachers I love are being ravaged by the inexorable stalactite-riddled bulk monikered Doomsday. There is a conflagrations snapping in the side windows. Texts are burning. It seems that Aron Rothman has something to do with bringing Doomsday to Manual. I am chasing lil’ Betsy. I am trying to get her to say a name I have never heard before. Somehow I think if I can only get Betsy to utter this complicated Persian sounding name everything will be alright. Everything is sinking around me. My leg is completely lame. I cannot run. I cannot catch Treasure Schultz and Sue Gibson and Brigitte Buitron in the girls state cross country final. I am walking with a limp. I am in Cool Joe Thomas’s class and he has doffed his toupee and is throwing it at me like a blade in a table saw. I am being attacked by giant cubes, each bearing a different element in the periodic table, each element biting, exuding, a gargantuan icecube tray trying to swallow me.
Superman is still suffering. Domomsday is taking every part of him. Superman strikes him one more time.The song is chiming in proverbial bell tolls for thee crystal tintinnabulations. Betsy has been pronouncing the song That’th’amous Th’umors, which makes it sound like a Mayo diagnosed carcinogen.
“There
is th’on thay thother than thave th’uperman thigh.”
Because of her lips I always have to ask Betsy to
repeat everything she says twice. On her second oration I realize she is saying
that there is only one thing I can perform to salvage the man of steel who is bashed-to-death
next to me.
I ask Betsy what. Betsy points past my left
shoulder blade.
I am stiff.
Renae is mandating that I fuck the hell out of her. My entire body is yearning to nose-dive into the center of her body. Due to her blindfold she looks like the inmate about to be executed by a firing squad who hankers for a cigarette before the fusillade of death convenes.
She is mandating that I place my body inside the moist thatch of emptiness located in the center of her body and form a rhythm of gaunt calisthenics for the majority of this world and the next. My shoulder swivels like a creaky classroom globe as I glance to the right, seeing superman out of the count, Lois Lane flooded in tears, Depeche Mode's syncopated diaspora hovering above the room like a cloud. I grope the elastic of my boxers and press them down to mid-thigh, my unit saluting out of the whiteness of my flesh like a horizontal flag. I am genuflecting on the caps of my twin knees.
The full length mirror on my closet I unfolding like a reflective tongue. It is a silver stream. It is glistening. Betsy is pointing. She is pogoing up and down as if she needs to potty. She is saying look. She is saying that our th'essel thas thinally arrived. At the end of the silver stream there is a plane. On the steps leading up to the plane I see the back head of Karen Christmas plus the equally blonde hair of someone I have never met before who is male.
From a distance I see Betsy walking with a Goofy backpack into the horizontal mirror. Betsy is wearing a beret. She is walking like a dwarf. She is stating that it is time to go. Both of their hair is the color of the Identity bracelet I am wearing at this moment. I keep looking. There is a woman who maybe comes up to my chin with piercing almond eyes and chestnut hair. She is wearing a white toga that looks like it has just been menstruated on by a Greek Deity; she is walking the converse direction. There is a sad look. She is calling me Charlie although her voice sounds just like Pam’s, she is telling me that I don’t know the Territory. She is calling me Charlie Cowell.She is talking about anvils.
She is telling me to weight.
As I look at my penis it has sprouted an extra plank. One second the baton of elongated flesh located beneath my navel is shaped like Big Ben and the next it is a cross. I am down on both knees. The plank of my virility is breaking into the center of Renae’s body I feel a ruffle purr then realize it if the plane at the end of the mirror. I look down. I see my Gideon bible. It is splayed like a nest the center of my body is bookmarking the back portion of the wallet-sized texts in what is either Psalms or Proverbs. Renae is still blindfolded. It sounds like she is praying in the way overweight middle-aged Baptist men sound like they pray. She keeps on saying oh god oh god seven times in a row and right when I look to my right I see that Superman’s gaunt visage is the color of antifreeze and that plane in the middle of the runway mirror is taking off, inside with Betsy and the Karen Christmas and the cool dude with blonde hair and the girl who looked like she was born from boughs of an orchard. Renae is splayed in front of me, supine, manacled by Kryptonite. She is telling me how much it hurts and then mandating that I somehow magnetically abuse her with the center of my own torso again. There are wars and there are rumors of wars. I can see the medals I accumulated early in the Cross Country season begin to blink in an ophthalmologist assenting manner before plopping off my wall. I see the liver-shaped Steamboat plaques invert outward as if on holsters and begin firing comic book ammunition. The Young Columbus plaques from twin years before seem to show theatric happy-sad visages before transitioning into giant film negatives. I am lounged in what was once the music room. The room I used to duck into and think about the girl I once walked into stepping out of the inky silhouette of her dance recital leotard at take 5 Dance Studio and how I was embarrassed to see her naked and now, if I refuse to fall further into the pasty arena of her loins I will be damned and Superman will die.
Doomsday somehow has fallen. The man of Steel is the Man of slush. There is blood. There is an altar like the altar I arrive to when I serve as the crucifier on Sunday morning, like the altar I wore a billowing bridal veil white bib last spring flanked by my progenitors, confirming my eternal trust in something inscrutable and divine and presumably male. My dick is a crutch, I can feel her body. Renae is biting her lip. She is telling me that it hurts but that it hurts in a way in which Cosmopolitan tells you that you want it to hurt. Even though she is blindfolded wearing my father’s tie I can see the ruffle of her lids bat shut. It feels like my unit is taco-wrapped around a chamois. It is an antennae. I am drilling into something inscrutable and unknown. On my right Lois Lane is yelping in high-pitched falsettos, she is screaming in front of a loose avenue of bodies. The stoic Super hero known as Bloodwyn is stating that he used some sort of voodoo power to scan both Superman’s and Doomsday’s respective anatomies and is picking up neither pulse nor brain activity prompting Lois Lane to keen even louder. I am a tenth of an inch inside of her. Depeche Mode just won’t shut the fuck up intoning about God having a sick sense of humor, which, spelled in the British vernacular the word humor contains the vowel you. Somehow I feel if I fuck the hell out of Renae Holiday I can resuscitate a bludgeoned Superman. That every thrust into her lithe limbs of her body would somehow serve as a defibrillator bolstering him back to life.
Even from behind my father's blindfolded tie I can tell that Renae's eyes are clasped tight as if she is praying. Sweat seems to ski down from the top of my brow in one looks like a musical clef signature before dollops in a trio of beads of her forehead. As I look down she is mouthing one word.
Deeper.
From my left side I can hear the thrusters flanking the side of the
plane begin to clear their aerial throats. I am completely lost inside the sway and corporeal compression of her limbs biting up into mine like a human draw-bridge. Superman is growing cold on one side of me and other a plane is taking off. I am inside Renae. I am welding the center of my virility into an unknown digit of flesh. I am drilling into the golf-course aperture of her torso as if I mining for a commodity. She is barking at me, she is ordering me to ride her, to tame her, to take her somewhere she has never been before. Her body is below mine. It is rattling. It is tittering. It is like I put quarters behind the slits of her ears and she can’t stop vibrating. Simultaneously it is like she is trying buck me from her loins as well as burrowing me inside her at the same time. She is biting her bottom lip. It feels like she is lifting off. Like we are levitating, purring. To my left the plane is beginning to cough. It is sprinting on the silver runway mirror in my direction. The timbre of Renae’s squeal is the same as Lois’ caterwaul on the opposite side of my body as thick whiplashes of runway exhaust tidal wave into our enjoined body. Just as Renae is ready to cream out my name I see the shadowy roar of an overhead plane reflected in the dew of her movie screen forehead, a nylon crucifix cutting into cerulean avenues of stratospheric unknown.
Renae tells me she is about ready to come.
No comments:
Post a Comment