A wisp of ash from his Lucky Strike fell onto his olive drab undershirt. Macomber flicked it off and sat up. His cot stank of monsoon. Fungus between his toes, congo creeping crud, itched damnation. "Fuck it," he said. Dousing the immolation with Jack Daniel's: "I baptize thee in the name of unholy revelation."
The jungle sat upon his hootch. He could hear the beating of its green heart. Words from the Rig Veda: there was neither non-existence nor existence; there was neither the realm of space nor the sky which is beyond.
The sky above the rain throbbed with the bruising of the air: chopper blades. The Huey, gray as a dragon's foreskin, its snout daubed with a huge Day-Glo vagina, clambered down Jacob's Ladder with Intel that could not wait.
Macomber tried to meditate. His mind closed in on a flamingo lily, or boy flower, hermaphrodite and poisonous to eat. Penis on a platter, the botonist from Hue had called it. Her name was Nuyen, and it had been a month since they kissed behind the bamboo in a small garden where she worshipped her ancestors. Beneath the shade of a green papaya he kissed her almond eyes and then, lifting the gauzy blouse slightly, her brown belly-button.
"Wake up, Macomber." Erskine Brown, the cowboy from Flatbush smirked. Floral boxers and dogtags.
"I wasn't sleeping."
"Whatever. Your eyes were closed."
"The hell you want?"
"Peace and Love."
*
Dusky slats of light fell from French Colonial shutters across Nuyen's belly, guiding his hands and then, slowly, his lips. She had bleached her hair platinum. The thatch excited him. Her inspiration came from either a Japanese art film or a whore she had seen in Saigon. Either way, he didn't care. She rolled over upon her breasts and began to croon his favorite song. By the time I get to Phoenix she'll be rising--
"Play with me," she commanded.
Macomber stroked his guitar and it sang. Just like Glen Campbell.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Smash-up
Sycamore leaf, maybe maple, gummed together with sap, cluttered the dirt road out of Gresham's Wood like origami landcrabs, scattering beneath the tread of the Skell Van. Brother Ambrose drove as rapidly as the route permitted. There were few curves. Lumber czar James "Mess Hall" Gresham had carved it straight as a plumbline through the wilderness. A crepuscule light gradually dimmed. Orc-like tree shadows shifted like phantoms. Headlights fired weak yellow cones of illumination into the deepening gloom. Suddenly between them stood Gresham's great elk. Massive, immobile as cold cement, barring further trespass.
The driver skidded the Skell Van into tanglewood, climaxing abruptly in the lap of a giant spruce. He smacked the windshield with his forehead just above the third eye and a shroud of darkness fell upon him like a guillotine blade.
*
Innuit intuition told her something terrible had happened to her man and the Skell Van. She put down the paint brush and stepped back from the mural, which was growing quite well in a surreal state of mind. Brother Ambrose had spoken of his late wife Cherry Blossom, whose mural enhanced the van. Sonya shivered, rushed headlong from the church, up the greenwood trail, into the night. The Skell Van was totalled. From all the blood, as if streaming from a Crown of Thorns, on his face, she thought Brother Ambrose was also totalled. She knelt by his side and keened into the night.
*
Artie Hoffman eased open the door to Semi-private Room 226 and peered inside. He saw a stunning olive-skinned young woman with dark Mediterranean hair sitting at a bedside. Her black Nirvana tee-shirt had been sheared just below her breasts. Intricate jade tattoos covered her arms from shoulder to wrist, leafy Amazon rain forest. The guy in the bed looked like a pickup truck pot vendor. Artie saw a resemblance to Kurt Cobain, but figured it was something subliminal generated by the woman's tee-shirt. A paperback book lay on the bed. "The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross" by John Allegro.
"Excuse me," Artie said. "Looking for Brother Ambrose."
"Mister Zig-Zag. Yeah, in the other bed. Hi, name's Macomber, and this is Calliope."
"Artie Hoffman."
"Newspaper man."
Artie sighed. "Yep."
"Used to be in the wordsmith trade myself. Well, look. Everything's cool. Your friend is sleeping. I think."
"Say, how did you come to calling him Mister Zig-Zag?"
"By his own admission."
From behind the privacy curtain a raggedy voice: "Artie. Is that you?"
"Yeah man, it's me."
"Come on over."
Ziggy looked like the Mummy, or maybe The Invisible Man, wrapped in gauze and self-adhesive stretch tape.
"How're you doin', Lazarus?"
"Back from the dead. That's right."
"So you're Mister Zig-Zag again."
"I can explain."
Artie pulled up a chair. "Indulge me."
"Macomber over there is reading a book about amanita muscana mushroom. I let it out that I knew something about it."
"What about it?"
"It grows real well during the winter in California. You can find it among bishop and monterey pine."
Artie clasped his friend's gnarly hand. "Good to have you back, Ziggy."
Someone else had come into the room. It was like a disturbace in the air.
They heard Macomber say, "Hi. Can I help you?"
A small voice. "Looking for my old man."
"Mister Zig-Zag, there's a young Eskimo lady here to see you!"
"Sonya! Come here, babe."
Sonya stood by Ziggy's bed. She said, "You're not the same person."
The driver skidded the Skell Van into tanglewood, climaxing abruptly in the lap of a giant spruce. He smacked the windshield with his forehead just above the third eye and a shroud of darkness fell upon him like a guillotine blade.
*
Innuit intuition told her something terrible had happened to her man and the Skell Van. She put down the paint brush and stepped back from the mural, which was growing quite well in a surreal state of mind. Brother Ambrose had spoken of his late wife Cherry Blossom, whose mural enhanced the van. Sonya shivered, rushed headlong from the church, up the greenwood trail, into the night. The Skell Van was totalled. From all the blood, as if streaming from a Crown of Thorns, on his face, she thought Brother Ambrose was also totalled. She knelt by his side and keened into the night.
*
Artie Hoffman eased open the door to Semi-private Room 226 and peered inside. He saw a stunning olive-skinned young woman with dark Mediterranean hair sitting at a bedside. Her black Nirvana tee-shirt had been sheared just below her breasts. Intricate jade tattoos covered her arms from shoulder to wrist, leafy Amazon rain forest. The guy in the bed looked like a pickup truck pot vendor. Artie saw a resemblance to Kurt Cobain, but figured it was something subliminal generated by the woman's tee-shirt. A paperback book lay on the bed. "The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross" by John Allegro.
"Excuse me," Artie said. "Looking for Brother Ambrose."
"Mister Zig-Zag. Yeah, in the other bed. Hi, name's Macomber, and this is Calliope."
"Artie Hoffman."
"Newspaper man."
Artie sighed. "Yep."
"Used to be in the wordsmith trade myself. Well, look. Everything's cool. Your friend is sleeping. I think."
"Say, how did you come to calling him Mister Zig-Zag?"
"By his own admission."
From behind the privacy curtain a raggedy voice: "Artie. Is that you?"
"Yeah man, it's me."
"Come on over."
Ziggy looked like the Mummy, or maybe The Invisible Man, wrapped in gauze and self-adhesive stretch tape.
"How're you doin', Lazarus?"
"Back from the dead. That's right."
"So you're Mister Zig-Zag again."
"I can explain."
Artie pulled up a chair. "Indulge me."
"Macomber over there is reading a book about amanita muscana mushroom. I let it out that I knew something about it."
"What about it?"
"It grows real well during the winter in California. You can find it among bishop and monterey pine."
Artie clasped his friend's gnarly hand. "Good to have you back, Ziggy."
Someone else had come into the room. It was like a disturbace in the air.
They heard Macomber say, "Hi. Can I help you?"
A small voice. "Looking for my old man."
"Mister Zig-Zag, there's a young Eskimo lady here to see you!"
"Sonya! Come here, babe."
Sonya stood by Ziggy's bed. She said, "You're not the same person."
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Bee's Wax
Felicity McBride loved to talk about people, but never about her father, the lighthouse keeper who blew out his brains when she was eight. He had been a morose reclusive man suiting himself in raw solitude, leaving a seldom-visited wife and daughter in a coastal shantytown not far from land's end. Actually, it was the sky that killed him. Observing his actions night and day, it was an all-seeing eye much like the one on a dollar bill. It ruled the limitless void beyond his jumbled mind, and yet, it hovered so close behind the right ear lobe that the man could feel a pressure of beating wings. When the existential horror became too great, Captain Wescott removed his Webley service revolver from its desk drawer and ended eveything. Of this Felicity was dead certain.
*
Not long after Brother Ambrose and Sonya Chekov departed in the Skell Van, Mary Jane the greengrocer saw Felicity approaching the tent, and noted how advanced the splotches on the old widow's face had become, looking like nipple-sized pink crabs. A gaunt crone in a black gown with stained armpits smelling like wilted roses.
"Morning, Mary Jane."
"Felicity."
"Well guess who came knocking yesterday."
"Haven't a clue."
"That Jew newspaperman. Asked me what it was exactly I saw going on at that hippy church down near Gresham's Wood, the one that used to be a barn. It seems he gets news from the sherrif's blotter."
"Yah--yeah, folks like to read stuff like that, especially the way Scoop slants it. Petty crime, domestic disputes. Arrests. All from the record. It's like reading good gossip."
"That's what worries me. He's liable to make me sound like a jackass. Instead of taking that preacher to task."
"Felicity, you're the one who ratted, instead of minding your own bee's wax."
"You offend me, Mary Jane."
"I'm sorry. But you are such a nosy person. What in God's name were you doing down there anyway? That's quite a walk from your--"
Felicity whirled like a black-robed dervish, losing her balance in a moment of lightheadedness, and strode off as if a bee had stung her in the ass. If Mary Jane's tent had sported a door, Felicity would have slammed it shut.
*
Kirkland McBride had left Felicity with modest income, a 401K and an 1890 house, painted pearly white, with two gables and a gingerbread front porch. At the end of the porch was a parlor window. The elegant little room waiting inside, forever in breathless gloom, had a mahogany mantel where a clock's stentorian tick-tock suggested the passage of time. Kirkland McBride's ashes were treasured in a brass urn.
*
Scoop found Sheriff Ito Tanaka in freshly starched khakies at his desk closely observing the hesitation waltz of a Mexican jumping bean. His black hair was pasted to a porcelain scalp showing male-pattern baldness, giving him a samurai look.
"What the hell, Ito?"
"Look how it moves. Isn't that something?"
"Yeah. Magic, I guess."
"Moth larva, inside, moving around."
"I gather this is not a busy day."
Although the Mexican jumping bean had given him an occult insight toward solving a cold-case murder, the sheriff blushed like a schoolboy caught peeking down a girl's blouse. Then, annoyed, he crooked an eyebrow.
"What can I do for you, Hoffman?"
"Tell me what Widow McBride saw out at Gresham's Wood."
Ito cracked a grin. "An orgy. A satanic orgy. Naked people fucking and hollering and having a damn good time."
"You're kidding."
"I'm kidding. She's got a screw loose somewhere. What she actually saw was an old fashion baptism. Full immersion. Blub blub."
Scoop smiled wistfully. "I see. My late wife was a Mormon. They do the same thing."
*
That afternoon Scoop visited Mary Jane and they shared some Green River herbal tea. He told her about Ito Tanaka's Mexican jumping bean.
"That Jap cheechako. What a card!"
"He's a clever little guy. What's a cheechako?"
"Tenderfoot."
*
Not long after Brother Ambrose and Sonya Chekov departed in the Skell Van, Mary Jane the greengrocer saw Felicity approaching the tent, and noted how advanced the splotches on the old widow's face had become, looking like nipple-sized pink crabs. A gaunt crone in a black gown with stained armpits smelling like wilted roses.
"Morning, Mary Jane."
"Felicity."
"Well guess who came knocking yesterday."
"Haven't a clue."
"That Jew newspaperman. Asked me what it was exactly I saw going on at that hippy church down near Gresham's Wood, the one that used to be a barn. It seems he gets news from the sherrif's blotter."
"Yah--yeah, folks like to read stuff like that, especially the way Scoop slants it. Petty crime, domestic disputes. Arrests. All from the record. It's like reading good gossip."
"That's what worries me. He's liable to make me sound like a jackass. Instead of taking that preacher to task."
"Felicity, you're the one who ratted, instead of minding your own bee's wax."
"You offend me, Mary Jane."
"I'm sorry. But you are such a nosy person. What in God's name were you doing down there anyway? That's quite a walk from your--"
Felicity whirled like a black-robed dervish, losing her balance in a moment of lightheadedness, and strode off as if a bee had stung her in the ass. If Mary Jane's tent had sported a door, Felicity would have slammed it shut.
*
Kirkland McBride had left Felicity with modest income, a 401K and an 1890 house, painted pearly white, with two gables and a gingerbread front porch. At the end of the porch was a parlor window. The elegant little room waiting inside, forever in breathless gloom, had a mahogany mantel where a clock's stentorian tick-tock suggested the passage of time. Kirkland McBride's ashes were treasured in a brass urn.
*
Scoop found Sheriff Ito Tanaka in freshly starched khakies at his desk closely observing the hesitation waltz of a Mexican jumping bean. His black hair was pasted to a porcelain scalp showing male-pattern baldness, giving him a samurai look.
"What the hell, Ito?"
"Look how it moves. Isn't that something?"
"Yeah. Magic, I guess."
"Moth larva, inside, moving around."
"I gather this is not a busy day."
Although the Mexican jumping bean had given him an occult insight toward solving a cold-case murder, the sheriff blushed like a schoolboy caught peeking down a girl's blouse. Then, annoyed, he crooked an eyebrow.
"What can I do for you, Hoffman?"
"Tell me what Widow McBride saw out at Gresham's Wood."
Ito cracked a grin. "An orgy. A satanic orgy. Naked people fucking and hollering and having a damn good time."
"You're kidding."
"I'm kidding. She's got a screw loose somewhere. What she actually saw was an old fashion baptism. Full immersion. Blub blub."
Scoop smiled wistfully. "I see. My late wife was a Mormon. They do the same thing."
*
That afternoon Scoop visited Mary Jane and they shared some Green River herbal tea. He told her about Ito Tanaka's Mexican jumping bean.
"That Jap cheechako. What a card!"
"He's a clever little guy. What's a cheechako?"
"Tenderfoot."
Monday, November 19, 2012
Regression
Mary Jane the green grocer sold her locally grown produce from a tent with perfect location. She owned a vacant lot in the heart of town. Cedar Crossroads, where rush hour traffic clotted for only fifteen minutes, was a nexus for zoning misfits The Wicker Man and Andes Bean Company, a homecrafted furniture store specializing in wicker peacock thrones and a gourmet coffee bar catering to unpublished poets, unemployed grad students and underdressed telemarketers. Mary Jane was a rich heiress free to be a counter-culture Mother Jones. Her fortune had been made by a spruce logging empire supplying that special wood needed for World War One aircraft, chiefly the S.P.A.D. pursuit fighter flown by Captain Eddy Rickenbacker and crew. Mary Jane was one fifth Oregonian Chinook, white complected, with high cheekbones and tanned crowsfeet. She wore her silver hair in a long french braid. Her gray eyes danced with clandestine mirth. Always clad in denim longsleeves and jeans, railroad engineer gloves, scuffed wellington boots, and a floppy straw sombrero tricked out with a bluebonnet scarf. A familiar sight, she garnered a continuous parade of honking motorists. Everybody loved Mary Jane. Especially Sonya Chekov.
The Skell Van parked in the dirt outside the tent and Sonya lumbered down from the shotgun seat, alarmingly rotund for such a strap of a woman. Mary Jane fancied that gravity would haul the baby out, dropping it like a little Buddha at mother's feet. Sonya's buzzcut whitewalls had sprouted lustrous raven plumage, tips flashing electric amethyst hues of purple and violet. She wore a brown paisley burnoose with the hood gaily thrown back. Her elfin face glowing.
"Hello, darling," Mary Jane said, waving to Brother Ambrose behind the steering wheel. He returned the wave.
"Hi, yourself," Sonya smiled.
"How did he like your arugula?"
"He ate it all up!"
*
Mary Jane offered Sonya a puffy sofa seat next to a potbelly stove in the "office."
"Take a load off," she said. "And tell me what's on your mind. Something's troubling you."
"No. No trouble. Just--"
"Just what?"
"I wish he would tell me about his dead wife."
"The one who visits him in the spirit?"
"She used to do that. I sense she has truly passed on."
"And you want to know what she was like."
"Uh-huh."
"Well, why don't you ask him?"
"Oh--"
"Pick a good time and tell him flat out you'd like him to share her with you."
"Yes. That sounds right."
"I think so."
*
"Her name was Cherry Blossom and I was called Ziggy. Short for Mister Zig-Zag because I smoked a lot of grass. We made love all the time. She painted the crazy mural on my old van. What can I say? I don't know where to begin."
He forced back a sob, stood up and walked out to the patio balcony. Beneath his checkerboard flannel shirt shoulder blades jutted like wings of a gargoyle.
Sonya sat with a ringing in her ears.
The Skell Van parked in the dirt outside the tent and Sonya lumbered down from the shotgun seat, alarmingly rotund for such a strap of a woman. Mary Jane fancied that gravity would haul the baby out, dropping it like a little Buddha at mother's feet. Sonya's buzzcut whitewalls had sprouted lustrous raven plumage, tips flashing electric amethyst hues of purple and violet. She wore a brown paisley burnoose with the hood gaily thrown back. Her elfin face glowing.
"Hello, darling," Mary Jane said, waving to Brother Ambrose behind the steering wheel. He returned the wave.
"Hi, yourself," Sonya smiled.
"How did he like your arugula?"
"He ate it all up!"
*
Mary Jane offered Sonya a puffy sofa seat next to a potbelly stove in the "office."
"Take a load off," she said. "And tell me what's on your mind. Something's troubling you."
"No. No trouble. Just--"
"Just what?"
"I wish he would tell me about his dead wife."
"The one who visits him in the spirit?"
"She used to do that. I sense she has truly passed on."
"And you want to know what she was like."
"Uh-huh."
"Well, why don't you ask him?"
"Oh--"
"Pick a good time and tell him flat out you'd like him to share her with you."
"Yes. That sounds right."
"I think so."
*
"Her name was Cherry Blossom and I was called Ziggy. Short for Mister Zig-Zag because I smoked a lot of grass. We made love all the time. She painted the crazy mural on my old van. What can I say? I don't know where to begin."
He forced back a sob, stood up and walked out to the patio balcony. Beneath his checkerboard flannel shirt shoulder blades jutted like wings of a gargoyle.
Sonya sat with a ringing in her ears.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Eyewitness
At sundown great hunter Orion strode above the western trees, in his left foot ever bright Rigel dominating a sky of pastel vermillion. This singular hue reminded Brother Ambrose of tulip pastures he had seen last Spring while driving the Skell Van near Washington's Mt. Vernon. He was sitting on Sonya's patio balcony and sipping her mulled winter cider, homemade from San Juan island apples, with cinnamon, allspice and juniper berries. He envisioned her picking fat heavy apples from fragile low-hanging branches and hoarding them in a wide blue apron. Behind him, back in the kitchen as she washed dishes, there came a clinking of glass. An odd memory: opening a box of custom retorts shipped by UPS when he himself cooked experimental fermentations.
Mugsy pounced into his lap, causing him to spill a dram of precious cider. She curled up and closed her devil eyes and began to purr. "Whoah, cat! I thought you hated me."
He shouted to Sonya, "Hey, Babe! Come and check this out!
Sonya was astonished. "She is onto a new game. So, tell me what's going on at the church?"
"Oh, some Tam O'Shanter dropped by during evening services, peeked through a window, and then reported to the sheriff that she had seen a mad cabal of witches and demons making merry."
"Good grief--"
"It was you and me she saw."
Through the Tudor-paned window Old Widow McBride saw but a still-life in mosaic. Flesh-tone pixels. Yet she positively recognized Brother Ambrose and his half-breed whore in the midst of an unholy quorum, twelve men and women, cavorting in a frenzied dance of unspeakable carnality.
"You spoke on Goethe's Urpflanze, the idea that Nature is God's living garment. That all plants evolved from one Original Plant. I must tell you, that is such bullshit!"
"I wasn't arguing on Goethe's behalf."
"Where did she get the notion we were naked?"
"Most likely, our clinging ecru vestments enhanced what she desired to see."
"She's a fucking liar!"
"All right. Now come sit with me."
Sonya drew up an adjacent chair and they sat side by side, able to hug one another. Mugsy woke from twitching slumber and crossed over to Sonya's lap.
"Clinging ecru vestments, my ass!"
Mugsy pounced into his lap, causing him to spill a dram of precious cider. She curled up and closed her devil eyes and began to purr. "Whoah, cat! I thought you hated me."
He shouted to Sonya, "Hey, Babe! Come and check this out!
Sonya was astonished. "She is onto a new game. So, tell me what's going on at the church?"
"Oh, some Tam O'Shanter dropped by during evening services, peeked through a window, and then reported to the sheriff that she had seen a mad cabal of witches and demons making merry."
"Good grief--"
"It was you and me she saw."
Through the Tudor-paned window Old Widow McBride saw but a still-life in mosaic. Flesh-tone pixels. Yet she positively recognized Brother Ambrose and his half-breed whore in the midst of an unholy quorum, twelve men and women, cavorting in a frenzied dance of unspeakable carnality.
"You spoke on Goethe's Urpflanze, the idea that Nature is God's living garment. That all plants evolved from one Original Plant. I must tell you, that is such bullshit!"
"I wasn't arguing on Goethe's behalf."
"Where did she get the notion we were naked?"
"Most likely, our clinging ecru vestments enhanced what she desired to see."
"She's a fucking liar!"
"All right. Now come sit with me."
Sonya drew up an adjacent chair and they sat side by side, able to hug one another. Mugsy woke from twitching slumber and crossed over to Sonya's lap.
"Clinging ecru vestments, my ass!"
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Weed Salad
Her belly round and full as a British dirigible and taut as a shaman's drum beneath his honeyed lips felt vaguely seismic, her own personal moon entering a new phase. She trilled like a musky woodland beast, rutting while enormously pregnant. Brother Ambrose loved her dearly. Sonya, his Russo-Innuit bride-to-be. Asian eyes in a snow-white Sitka face, flushed and sweaty now.
He rolled her onto her side and gently entered her moss pit.
"Baby Cakes!" she gasped as her breasts leaked milk from all her arousal. Brother Ambrose looked upon her blackberry nipples in awe.
"God damn, woman!"
"Oh, Baby Cakes--"
*
Sonya's wanton filigreed kimono had lost its obi. Her pregnant belly poked out like the harvest moon, its pugnosed button nuzzling the kitchen counter where she was fixing an arugula salad. Meanwhile, Brother Ambrose snaked into a pair of jeans he had bleached threadbare, ridding them of winedark motor oil stains. He felt such a love for her it was beyond passion. Together they had created a baby, something he and Cherry Blossom never managed to do. Theirs was a marriage of musical rebellion, buttucks flat on the floor as they perfected yab-yum, bodies locked within a yoga of crossed legs, a hookah bowl richly burning not far away. Her yoni wept honey, and it spilled over when he climaxed. Shiva's lingam, he called his prick. Dozing on the sofa he had just dreamed of how Cherry Blossom must have looked in death, with that cruel hunting arrow in her throat. Oh, dear sweet wife--
He hoisted himself, pulling invisible strings, like a wooden Pinocchio, to a spindly standstill. Not as limber as you used to be, old man! Sonya was slitting two bell peppers, one yellow, the other red, and never sensed his approaching hand. He grasped her naked belly as if it were a Hammond Atlas globe, the hand cupping Australia, just above her feral pubic pelt. He could smell the goat cheese she had brought out for the toasted baguette croutons.
"Oh, baby--" she gushed. There were cruets of balsamic vinegar and virgin olive oil.
"I see we're having weed salad tonight."
"Wild arugula, fresh from Washington."
"Mmm--so nutty."
He rolled her onto her side and gently entered her moss pit.
"Baby Cakes!" she gasped as her breasts leaked milk from all her arousal. Brother Ambrose looked upon her blackberry nipples in awe.
"God damn, woman!"
"Oh, Baby Cakes--"
*
Sonya's wanton filigreed kimono had lost its obi. Her pregnant belly poked out like the harvest moon, its pugnosed button nuzzling the kitchen counter where she was fixing an arugula salad. Meanwhile, Brother Ambrose snaked into a pair of jeans he had bleached threadbare, ridding them of winedark motor oil stains. He felt such a love for her it was beyond passion. Together they had created a baby, something he and Cherry Blossom never managed to do. Theirs was a marriage of musical rebellion, buttucks flat on the floor as they perfected yab-yum, bodies locked within a yoga of crossed legs, a hookah bowl richly burning not far away. Her yoni wept honey, and it spilled over when he climaxed. Shiva's lingam, he called his prick. Dozing on the sofa he had just dreamed of how Cherry Blossom must have looked in death, with that cruel hunting arrow in her throat. Oh, dear sweet wife--
He hoisted himself, pulling invisible strings, like a wooden Pinocchio, to a spindly standstill. Not as limber as you used to be, old man! Sonya was slitting two bell peppers, one yellow, the other red, and never sensed his approaching hand. He grasped her naked belly as if it were a Hammond Atlas globe, the hand cupping Australia, just above her feral pubic pelt. He could smell the goat cheese she had brought out for the toasted baguette croutons.
"Oh, baby--" she gushed. There were cruets of balsamic vinegar and virgin olive oil.
"I see we're having weed salad tonight."
"Wild arugula, fresh from Washington."
"Mmm--so nutty."
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
New Church
It had been maryjane barn. The weed was long gone and the dudes were down in Roswell, New Mexico. Summer afternoons, it looked like an oil painting, with golden sunlight and mauve shadows. The timber had succumbed to verdigris and would reflect a ghastly palor during a full moon. No one visited it, as it was full of bats.
Brother Ambrose bought it for a song. The real-estate woman was astonished with the way he crooned Donovan's "Fat Angel."
Fly Jefferson Airplane. It get's you there on time.
Before he left her office he had taken advantage of her brazen decolletage.
He parked the Skell Van at the great barn door. Got out and released the bats. They flushed into the trees, never to return. Kerosene lanterns illuminated the guano. He groaned.
He rolled a dub of his favorite apphrodesiac: Haze Plum.
"Ziggy," his dead wife whispered. "The time has come for me to leave you."
"No! You must remain with me always!"
"I can't."
*
Oh, there were grand things he wished to do with his barn. (It was to become First Church of Saint Pelagius. "You are governed by nothing but your Free Will!") First the altar, then creating a facsimile of Robert Smithson's "Feet of Christ" on the wall behind it. There was a Russian-Inuit goth chick in town who could do it, if he asked her right.
What a combination, he thought. Russian mysticism and Innuit shamanism.
Now, what was her name?
Sonya something.
Brother Ambrose bought it for a song. The real-estate woman was astonished with the way he crooned Donovan's "Fat Angel."
Fly Jefferson Airplane. It get's you there on time.
Before he left her office he had taken advantage of her brazen decolletage.
He parked the Skell Van at the great barn door. Got out and released the bats. They flushed into the trees, never to return. Kerosene lanterns illuminated the guano. He groaned.
He rolled a dub of his favorite apphrodesiac: Haze Plum.
"Ziggy," his dead wife whispered. "The time has come for me to leave you."
"No! You must remain with me always!"
"I can't."
*
Oh, there were grand things he wished to do with his barn. (It was to become First Church of Saint Pelagius. "You are governed by nothing but your Free Will!") First the altar, then creating a facsimile of Robert Smithson's "Feet of Christ" on the wall behind it. There was a Russian-Inuit goth chick in town who could do it, if he asked her right.
What a combination, he thought. Russian mysticism and Innuit shamanism.
Now, what was her name?
Sonya something.
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