Icicles like dragon teeth hang from my house. They drip, drip, drip, like blood in the sun. Like crooked piano keys they dangle precariously from the edge of the roof. Wet, cold spikes, remnants of a crippling storm, they let gravity pull down their tears and drop them to the ground. The sun’s orbish glow mingles with the ice to create glistening starlight like space… And I FINALLY watched the last episode of Game of Thrones.
The wonderous aftermath of the ice storm that rolled through Tennessee.
… But let’s take our kid to the park and have a great time. Let’s play in the grass and smile about it. Let’s laugh and be happy that even in death this world buries us in more debt. These people shouldn’t be having a good time; they should be depicted as being crushed with worry. Reality. Yes, dying is expensive, and so is everything else. They keep taking more and more from us. Even dying creates a bill. But wait, there’s a way to cover those expenses… by paying for life insurance. Another bill. Dying is expensive? Living is expensive. Living to die is expensive. I wonder how much a ticket to the afterlife is.
A lemon-yellow sun god sits on a rock on a moon of Saturn. Legs crossed, eyes closed. He manifests the destruction of Earth, the riot planet, the asylum zoo and fever razor swallow ship. All the depressed machines, better known as human beings, swallow pills and cry and wallow in a dark blue sky. Peppercorn puppets put on a play at the burning library. All are slander and wrought-iron hearts. The balloon bitch from night church comes into the store and demands to be blown up. Pissy pubes and contorted face give her away. So clerkie refuses to go out of his way. Act like that… “No helium for you!”
Tick tock on the rocks. Man in high-rise pajamas drinks tequila straight from the bottle. He goes out to the veranda and looks at the glowing skyline. A million Christmas trees and now he sees double because of all that booze. He calls his lawyer in the Hamptons and asks if he can sue someone for acting like a whiny bitch. “I’ll try anything once,” he answers. “Emotional distress, yeah, that’s the ticket.”
Acid gnomes gather beneath the limbs of swirling trees. Shadow people are on an odyssey of the mind. They walk through walls waving signs of revolution, sticks aloft, shouts enhanced by bizarro anti-totalitarian rage. Assassins of lust vibrato drop down from the sky like hidden monkeys, stalk the monarchy in the halls of the infinite palace and its afterlife echoes.
The man’s weird thoughts settle. He gets a notification on his phone. Cigarette Sally won’t be coming to dinner. I need space… is what she texts.
“I need to be in outer space,” the man says to the phone as if she could hear him. He turns to a portrait of a polar bear hanging on the wall above his comfortable couch. “But I guess the drugs and booze have already shot me out of a cannon and now I’m just floating.” He returns to the veranda and looks out at the city once more, awash in multi-colored light. “All those people in all those windows and here I am in solitude and altitude with my sad head and my money and my loneliness.”
He sighs, drains the tequila bottle, throws the empty bottle over the edge. There’s a crash of glass and a yell. “I could have killed someone,” the man suddenly realizes. He pokes his head out over the rail and looks down. No blood. No guts. No reds and blues popping on the slick streets of mirror magic. Nothing tragic. He looks up and sees the dialysis of Heaven pumping in the light pollution, filtering the holy anarchy of Enoch.
The man goes back inside, goes into his closet and stands before the full-length mirror he has there. “My name is Ted for Christ’s sake,” he says to his reflection. “Ted… Stupid.” He studies his lean and miniscule muscular body. “Teddy… ready Teddy,” and he thrusts his hips to mimic sexual intercourse. Then he laughs at himself. “What am I doing?” His phone dings and doinks. Another text from Cigarette Sally… Perhaps I was a bit hasty in my decision about tonight. Still want to get together?
Ted grins. No.
Why not?
You had your chance, and besides, I’m having enough fun by myself.
Are you messed up again?
I’m blitzkrieged.
I don’t think that’s a word.
I have my own language, so, shut up.
Stop being an asshole, Ted.
Stop calling me Ted. I want to go by Teddy from now on.
That’s gay.
You’re gay.
Sometimes I wish I was. Men are pigs.
I’d like to watch.
See! My point exactly.
Whatever, Sally. Think I’m going to drop some acid.
And hang out with those gnomes again? Really, Ted. You need to grow up.
My name is Teddy! And those gnomes are my friends.
I’m done for tonight. Get some rest.
Teddy growled at his phone and threw it against a wall.
Sunrise came and woke him from his restless slumber on the couch. He sat up and things were still swirling. Gaping faces appeared in everyday objects. Colors were brighter than normal. He felt weird. He thought he saw Cigarette Sally sitting in a chair across from him and he could see through her skin to her glowing green bones. He reached for his phone on the coffee table. There was an unread text from Sally: Are you okay?
Zip it. Jiggle the handle. Eat her like a bowl of dog food.
God, Ted. What is wrong with you?
I have lots of personal problems.
You sure do. I must get ready for work. Are you going to work today?
No. I’m never going back there again.
What!?
I just don’t want to anymore.
How will you live?
And therein lies the problem of our society. Why does my survival have to depend on some stupid job?
Oh boy. Here we go again with that socialist crap.
No, Sally. You’re brainwashed and stupid. Capitalism is crap.
I’m not doing this right now, comrade.
I’m breaking up with you, Sally.
What? Why?
Because you’re dumb. You don’t believe in me or my assertions of peace and love.
You’re nothing but a drug-raddled hippie!
With a $100 haircut.
Your hair is stupid.
Your whole body is stupid!
This is juvenile, and I’m not doing it anymore. Let me know when you grow up and are living in the real world.
The real world sucks, and you know it…
Teddy sat at a small table in the breakfast room of the Admiral Hotel in Bergen, Norway. He sipped on coffee and ate a buttery croissant. The day was going to be just fine. He planned on taking a walk around the city, browsing the shops, getting lunch, and then returning to the hotel to work on his novel. He smiled to himself as he looked out the window toward the harbor. He picked up his phone, took a picture, and then texted Sally.
Another wonderful day here. How’s life in the States?
She never replied.
The days are slowly getting longer. The shadows are outrunning the stars. Veils of a stone keep and funeral incense fluster the black birds on the wire in a world left unkempt by savage people. The boy taps on black smudged keys on a keyboard that no longer works. He turns away from his blown-out computer and casts a glance toward the window. The way soft light hits the Earth makes his guts tumble. He’s always been moved by scenes of dusk and the polished versus the unpolished. The radiance versus the radiated. Streams of glowing black moon, the acrobats up there doing drills in preparation for another war. In an empty socket the boy plugs it in—his rechargeable gun. He watches, but nothing happens. He knew that, but somehow, he was still hopeful. But all he wants to do is color in a coloring book from the streets of Santa Fe with paper that smells like real life. The box of crayons sits on a shelf above his desk. It’s covered in dust. He pulls it down, blows, and makes a retracting face as the dust explodes all around him. The boy suddenly realizes he can do whatever he wants. His head is in the window again. The vacant trees are now black against the bruise-blue sky. It’s time to gather the lanterns from their hiding places… And be quiet doing it.
CEREAL AFTER SEX 