Our lives all tangled in a fishing net of anxiety. And then she’s lovely to hold. Warm wife. Oblong life. Woke up like lonely Hulk today, thumbing for a ride on the avenue of broken dreams, smashing through a brick wall in an abandoned town on the edge of the desert. Scattered bricks like broken red bones. Scattered sinew on sailing ships. My Hulk prophecy figure walks into an old diner and throws a coffee maker out a window. Fragile, time-tainted glass shatters. A bellow of life rage bursts forth from green lungs. To the bank, the vault. I rip off the door and step inside. I fill my torn pants with money. I fall to the floor. I’m beginning to transform back to a regular human being even though I will never be a normal human being. My eyes don’t look weird anymore; my hair doesn’t look stupid. I take all that money and buy some new clothes at the abandoned western store. A mannequin propped up behind the counter takes the cash. She has a rabid smile and a cracked eye. She says, “Thank you, have a nice day” in a warped, mechanical voice. There’s a vibe of cemetery creepiness.
I take the stolen money to Vegas so I can gamble and drink and walk around in an altered state of consciousness. I feel weird and alone in that great sea of people. The skin, the fabric, the suntan lotion smell, the erratic behavior and noise. It’s like swimming in an ocean of strange beings from somewhere else. I sit comatose in front of a slot machine and watch the world spin. Bells suddenly start going off, lights flash. Winner! I take my ten million dollars up to the hotel room. Dim light, an A/C chill. I throw the money on the bed and dive into it. I swim in my dreams come true. Then there comes a knock on the door. I get up to answer. It’s the mannequin from the western store in that desert town. She looks at me with that cracked eye. “I followed you because I like you. You’re handsome and cool. I need more for my life than just standing behind that counter and dying of boredom.” Her eyes shift to the piles of money on the bed. “And you’re rich. I love that. Let’s go shopping.”
People look at us because I am a man and she is a mannequin. Passersby take photos. I am taunted and teased. Grenadine, her name was Grenadine, defends me. She attacks people and rips out their hair. People scream and scatter. The police arrive and we’re both questioned, then arrested. The cops take all my money. I sit alone in a jail cell, an empty soul with destitute pockets. My dreams are shattered, and I blame it all on that damn Grenadine. I should never have answered the door. I should have leapt out the window with my life intact. Damn desert mannequin. Damn dreams and drugs. Errors are relentless, time is unforgiving.
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CEREAL AFTER SEX 