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napalm sno-cones

August 30th, 2013 § 0 comments

Poem #229 for Gift Poem to JJ Gembinski

 

“Stop being such an American,” she said to me.

I knew exactly what she meant, with my cum stains dried on the inside of my pant thigh, crumbs of cake stuck on my face (those that did not make it to my stomach).  My preaching had reached obnoxiously righteous levels, but I argued anyway.  I knew exactly what she meant, but I am trained to question.

I searched through all of my wise epitaphs, searched soul, searched for wit and deduced it all to:

“Fuck.”

Afterall, there has always been a difference between what it is I should do and what it is I actually do actually do…except for the actual do-do…when shit comes, it just comes.

“And being content with your ignorance is why no one has real respect for you…as a person, a citizen, a nation but worse, as a collective people.”

She was right, but she was preaching my preach and when I teach, I refuse to listen.  So I put my dirty index fingers in my ears, nails a bit too long (but feels kinda good all the same), and proclaimed with habitual mature arrogance,

“La La La La La La La La La La La La La !!!!!!!”

She slapped me hard.  Really hard.  One tooth fell out, my crooked one became straight again, my deviated septum undeviated itself,
a few vertebra cracked and my hair got all mussed.

I instantly got a boner, a rock solid erection of lust and a thought of hate-fucking her right there and then for calling me out, daring to challenge me or having the nerve to presume.  I got a boner because I immediately felt inferior to her.

“Ugh…such an American…Figures,” as she stares at my compass trying to point me in the right direction.

“I just feel we use too much logic to excuse us from making risk a verb and not an adjective.  We Americans are the Superclass civilization and we are bored as fuck because of it.”  It was all I could say.

“To have everything and want nothing…such a pity,” she says.

“As is having nothing and striving for everything.  I would rather have no gluttony than to strive to want more than I need.”

Just then, an elderly woman came into view, pushing a small metal ice-cream cart, sides perspiring from working so hard to keep cold what is supposed to be cold, leaving droplets of ice to track the endless trail she travels.  She was beaten, not by fists but by life, tattered clothes patched with time, feet dragging arms pushing body heaving from living when everyone else keeps passing.  She did not appear worn or angry, not peaceful, not happy.  She was just moving on through…

It was then I noticed that I was nowhere.  The setting appeared to be a nondescript existence, a clear dimension but void of mass etherealness, definition or any dreamlike tendency these moments are often imagined to be or exhibit (or at least move through).  Me and her, she and I, were just there, wherever we were, and this lady appeared, from somewhere, where we were not.

It did not make much sense to me.

This girl who was verbally and physically turning me on with her berating and violence became calm.  Someone inside her clicked the switch to the “hold” position and she stopped all passion, all conversation.

There she was.  There I was.

And slowing, with a subtle creak here and faint bell-ding there, the aged-one inched towards us as the human elderly slug she was.  No purpose to destination…just stuck in motion in this dimension.

A few years passed like this, richly filled with nothing, until the rotted crab finally made it close enough to us, cart still creaking, bell still dinging.

She looked at me, for about a year more, though feeling, as time often plays out, that not a moment had passed.

Which was real?

My female compatriot, for a moment, clearly articulates, “I’ll have the coconut, if it is pure.  He will have the cherry, if it is ready.”  She said this in such a motherly tone.  She apologized, somehow by this statement, for the entire existence of the universe.  I started to cry, or rather, tears fell from my eyes.  There was no emotion to it, just a tiny faucet opening, like someone dripping tears from a tube burrowed under my skin.

“Not yet.  Please.  Just hold them for a few moments more.  It is almost time, so trust me.”

Faucet off.

The decaying shell of what appeared to be an old human dutifully, responsibly opened the lid to her ice-box.  She looked down into it, lowered her head to its mouth then somehow went further.  Her feet stayed on the nothing she was standing on but she was buried belly-button-deep inside this mobile cube.

“Patience,” my patient female aggressor said to me…coldly.

When the wench reemerged, she had a glistening pearly-white ivory sno-cone in her hand.  It smelled of ideology, of perfect beach landscapes and sweet surf-board wax, of every memory positive dreams are built from.  It exuded the scents of everything right in the world, everything, at least, I believed should be right if it weren’t for everything that made it wrong.

“Thank You,” she said to the decrepit creature as she handed her this award for her “patience”, as she said to me once again.  Aside from holding it, she never otherwise acknowledged, tasted or smelled it.  Just stayed on hold, staring at the reapers’s soon-to-be house guest.

“He is ready.  He has said nothing, so, he is…” trailing off as if all of existence would end if she finished that particular sentence.

The ancient beetle sighed, the first anything of anything she did since being.

Grandma looked into Pandora’s box again, leaned in but this time, she disappeared.  She didn’t fall in, just gently placed herself headfirst, then shoulders, torso, vagina, knees and feet in.

“Get the tears ready again.  It is time.  She’ll be back soon, but wait for me to tell you…And please remember…I tried.”

I image a few more years passed, but I was thinking too much to really pay attention.  I imagine a lot.  But when I realized my erection was harder than I knew it was possible for it to be, I also realized Icarus’s great-grandmother was once again back, and snailing towards and eventually past me.  This time, though, she had a cherry firecracker blood glittering apple red sno-cone.  She did not hand it to me nor did I take it.  It just transferred to me as she passed, like a quick subtle tango.

I watched her, mesmerized, hypnotized, never taking real notice of what was in my hand, never taking notice that my female counterpart was gone, never noticing until I heard her voice inform me that “…sixty-eight years have passed”, that I was now ninety-nine, alone in this universe, holding onto this unmeltable sno-cone, with patience.

And then…”You can cry now,” her voice said, my voice said…God’s voice said?

The pain started immediately as a burning at the tip of my cock, growing still, frighteningly large now.  Water on, tears flow and when the first drop hit my pants, I noticed this sno-cone started…melting?

“But it is not frozen.  It is quite the opposite somehow.  There is no smell.  There is nothing about any of it that I know to be what of it that I know it should be.”

This slush, this gel, started moving at a glacial pace down the side of the paper cup, down my finger, then arm, side of my body, seemingly moving on its own will towards my tear-drop-stained crotch.

“Why does it burn?…Why is it burning me?”

And when this substance reached my salty substance, in an instant, an agonizing fire, and my prick exploded.

“I AM SORRY,” I screamed!!!

“You can cry now,” she/it replied from no where.  “I tried to warn you.”

That is when I smelled the napalm, that is when I knew what all of it meant, that is why she asked me to stop being the nation and start being the person.

“I tried,” I said.

“I tried,” she said.

And to escape the pain of this now wasted old man, I turned that faucet open to full blast and ignited myself…

I knew exactly what it all meant.

af

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