First published November 2005 in Bleach Magazine, #7
Micro-Analysis II: Skulking In The Shithouses Of Every Queer Harbor
Property. Right. David Ricardo was a dick. So are you. I put it out piece by piece, squinting to do it, occasionally undressing as I done it, disrobing in the street, of all ages and both sexes in one, and I am many of them, there being many sexes as well, being many ones in a multiple single, stronger than the Macedonian infantry, being older than five centuries, blocking the door making egress impossible, so lie with me on the sofa, to put it wildly. You're not the cracked narrator you wish, not white light, not depth, not even covering the space from your head to your toes, you have no head, only the non-space of the mouth cavity where the tongue wags, but we throw meat to the dogs, piss on the fire, smash your piss pot, so you ain't got one to piss in, you're just the non-space of the mouth cavity rolling impossibly on the filthy floor, the tongue still flapping, marginally, all decisions made at the margin. Do you call my name? Did you twist the notes? Do you open the circuits, sparks flying against the night, splitting your mind open? Do your guts twitch in the hot evening, thinking of the noise in your head, needing a toilet quickly? Do you? Do you have a toilet in Chattanooga? A toilet in Scottsboro? A toilet in East Tennessee? Can you earn a dollar, asshole? Do you have an asshole? I demand to see it. Who has accompanied you here? What do you suck on? We do that in Nashville and Washington, but not here where we are all dangerously ill, nor in Alabama where with God's help we'll all eat dog meat for dinner. Not I, of course, neither sitting nor standing, when the coppers knock knock on the door door. I'll beat you sideways, perhaps not alone either, one eye black, the other blind, you'll be lucky to have dog meat for dinner, so, just do it, we say. Our meetings need less blue/red and more white to make us happy. Being a pig you're not infinite like me, you're like only in the ways that I make up, and I change those, whenever. But not I, I am practically in your ear, planting little ferns there, just like, well, just a stone or two more. Now, again, take all this and double it, increasing its worthlessness. Now you are the foot going out the door, the twig poking through the broken window, not in Alabama, here in the dark, where it's darker, where it's impossibly dark. Well. Like the gonococcus in the folds of the prostate, in flew Enza from Pittsburgh with a cock in her ass, cash between her ears, do you hear, do you hear me hugging the guts of the world, skulking in the shithouses of every queer harbor, sucking dumb boys for a smoke, looting a dime for humanity, ha!, you say, I know you, the evil cock, vile canker, you don't help no one never, no, I do, I always do, in ass backward ways I do, I only let myself down, knowing it's not enough, never enough, doing all I possibly can with my head up my ass, my feet through the roofs of burning houses built on mud flats, a sacrifice, gnats in my ears, wind bowling down the dead elms and sycamores. So. Do you hear that? Do you hear that mysterious sound? Dogs hear it, rats too, and snakes, and me, I hear it before the filthy rodents hear it, their nuts so close to the muck, like you, muck sucker, but worse than the filthy rodents, you've cut off your balls, a choice you made yourself, so you don't hear it, the mystery, that sound is heard through the nuts and asshole, and through lips, the full wet sensual ones, seeking warmth and warm intruders, these all hear just fine, but I don't hear you, Mr. Ricardo, you bum, take your curves into the light for the fools, we live in the dark warm sensual muck where all life comes from, fucking, not baby making.