Silence.
estaba soñando
I fornicated with Miller and boozed with Bukowski.
I dropped E with Irvine, I raped with Roman.
I empired with Alexander, satirized with Swift.
I toured hell with John.
I taught Rembrandt photoshop,
I gave Van Gogh a q-tip.
I did lines with Pablo and read lines with Gary.
I left the Milky Way with Stephen and hawked Kahn’s spoils.
I accepted awards with Phillip, for the future I said OK Dick.
I speedballed with Jean-Michel,
I shot with William and shanked with Norman.
I rose from the south like Bill.
I lie like Ernest.
Twelve
Shock. Shock. Breathe. Nurcan.
Breathe. Breathe.
Shock.
I’ve nothing against police or firemen (as an Islander how can you?). But when the bastards are playing your music, flipping through your photos, and lying on your couch? While you receive Nurcan on a stretcher! Well.
Coming to, the paramedic tells me I’ve OD’d and to lay back and relax. OD’d? Again? Then why the hell am I in my apartment with IPD and FDI? Could I not have been brought back to life in an ambulance like usual? Or by that one gay doctor at St. Vincent’s?
‘Lay down, you don’t wanna get up. Trust me dude.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah homey, if you start boppin around these pigs are gonna arrest yo ass.’
Dude, homey, pigs—arrest my ass? Is this how paramedics talk these days?
‘Yeah dude, your boy here saved you. You were dead homey, he gave you mouth to mouth, beat some life back into you.’
‘You’re not a cop right?’
‘Hell no son!’
Leaning up, ‘Did my boy get rid of the shit?’
‘Nah, but I got here first, it’s in my pocket.’
‘Word?’
‘Word, but you cats ain’t getting it back. I got some other shit for you. What’s your boy’s name?’
‘Lousifer.’
‘Cool name. Lousifer, let’s do this.’
Unable to find anything, other than a few DVDs for the station, the cops clear out. The firemen are a bit more empathetic, telling me I must have a nice fulfilling life; why am I blowing it on this shit; I should settle down, get a girl. Do I have a fire escape?
I tell them to grab a couple bottles of flavored whiskey on the way out, for the boys.
The paramedic wheels me through my loft, towards the stairs. I realize that after dying, reviving, vomiting, and Nurcan influx…I’m much more sober than Lousifer. How had he maintained composure around the cops? Geeked! Given me mouth to mouth. Dulce? Hell, take Slutskia too.
As the paramedic and his partner carry me out, I sniff a familiar fragrance. Opening my eyes we come upon Slutskia and Dulce walking up the stairs.
‘Baybee, what da fauk!’
She looks genuinely perplexed (shocker). A satisfied Dulce looks over her shoulder, shrugging innocently. They do look good together.
‘Don’t worry babe, just a formality. The power’s back on.’
Never ones to stop the party, the two sames go upstairs to do god knows what. Levitating out of my building I see The Fireman and Aeronymous by the ambulance.
‘Hey Crac, these are my good friends Brazil Samey and Brazil Same Samey. Listen brother, if you need to talk I’m here for you. Slutskia’s probably having a hard time right now, I’m gonna go check on her.’
Thanks Fireman.
‘Cracula, I know now’s not the time…’
Do you?
‘But there is a better way. You really need to join The Cult. There’s a Cult meeting tonight if you wanna go. Call me after St. Vincent’s.’
He leans in, whispers.
‘I would go to the hospital, but I gotta get these two Brazilo sames’ numbers.’
Thanks Aeronymous.
I see Tambourine, she’s there in thpirit. ‘Cracula, take these crystals. They were blessed by a shaman healer on Bleecker.’
Thanks Tambourine.
Fireman, Aeronymous, and the two sames trot up the stairs. Tambourine breaks into a chant and vanishes. Lousifer boards the ambulance with me. Must he have revived me?
‘So check it out, I gotta throw away the gear fellas. You’re lucky I snatched it before the cops showed. You cats’d be high and locked up, and that’s a real motherfucker. And listen, I party, lord knows I party, but you gotta take it easy. Make sure you get good shit.’
Lousifer chimes in.
‘I usually do.’
‘Word, lemme get your number.’
‘No doubt son.’ ‘Word.’ ‘Word up.’ Word.
They exchange numbers, speak of mutual friends, late night spots.
‘And what’s your name?’
Cracula.
‘I’m gonna leave you with some fresh needles and Nurcan. Keep this shit close by when you’re partying. You gotta party safe homey.’
PARTY. PARTY. PARTY. PARTY. PARTY. PARTY. PARTY. PARTY. PARTY. PARTY. PARTY. PARTY. PARTY. PARTY.
Being wheeled into St. Vincent’s I’ve never been more relaxed. At ease and sedate. Rolling past nurses, orderlies and doctors, I eavesdrop.
Did you see Amoeban Idol last night… They should trade him, salary or not… I love the new smoking law… Yeah, the concert was great, I really think it’s going to make a difference. Like, everyone there was so unified, really. Bozo’s speech was really touching…
Rolling on, I peep Lousifer. Pinned and focused.
Shit girl, I’m taking the long weekend. Ya feel me… There was this guy last week, he had gangrene from shooting in his penis. Really interesting… She didn’t even know she had the hep… And to think he lost his dad in 9/11…
Halting, we are curtained in. Lousifer and I.
‘Yo Lous, let’s get the fuck outta here.’
‘No doubt.’
Lousifer peers around the curtain like a pedophile in a retirement home. ‘Lay back and act normal.’
Sure thing, Lous.
I’m not sure if he’s so sorted he fancies himself a doctor, but he calmly unlocks the wheels and pushes me to a handicapped bathroom, greeting his co-workers along the way…hello doctor…good morning doctor…
Breaching the stall, we rip all the needles, plugs, chords— lifelines—from my veins and make a run for safety. Surfacing on Seventh Avenue the sunlight is blinding, hypnotic.
Blood leaks from my veins, fills my eyes, mouth.
Shirtless and bleeding, I feel impervious to the winter. Fuck it. I don’t even want a cab, I’ll walk home. Fuck everyone.
Lousifer meets my eyes, gives a pound, hops a cab. I stroll down Seventh Ave.
It’s five degrees, pre wind-chill. I have no idea the day, month, year, ruling party, latest pop monstrosity. Religion. Passing Bank, Perry, Charles, I leave a trail of blood. Islanders avert their eyes, speak on mobiles, send texts, place bets, order grams. I’m thirsty.
Reaching Bleecker I turn left, pass terrible tavern after trite watering hole until I come upon The Elongated Donkey Bar and Grill.
‘Sir, we can’t service you without a shirt.’
‘Son, I’m Cracula. Give me a goddamn pint.’
Drinking and bleeding, I finally have time to think. What now? Dulces’s a wrap. Slutskia still shares my residence. The Reverend’s coming any day. I could go home, listen to The Fireman talk about his good friends. Listen to Aeronymous speak of The Cult. Listen to sames in predictive text. No, I shall become an astronaut. Experience weightlessness. Travel to Mars. I shall say things like ‘Abort Mission’ and ‘Houston, Relax.’
Another pint please.
I’ll travel the world, have a same in every country. Reproduce. I’ll befriend new Firemen, new clergy, urban wildebeests, sames, unshaven decrees, shaven yields. Avoid cults. Having seen the world, I shall have shrunk it. Then I’ll be off to Mars, start a new civilizatio
n. A new breed.
Check please.
Thirteen
The next few nights pass without incident. I avoid phone calls, watch sindemand, and pound whiskey. Aeronymous sends cult texts, The Fireman uses sames as steps, Tambourine is there in thpirit, Slave offers a reach around. Noddy understands. Lousifer begins dating Dulce. Slutskia can’t figure out why I was carried out of our apartment. The Reverend arrives.
The Reverend’s arrival, though welcome, will no doubt expedite the brewing shitstorm.
‘Cracula, how are you man?’
Now, once again, a man of God. The Reverend speaks in thoughtful, measured tones. Atonal tones.
I offer him a drink, smoke.
‘Cracula, I told you I quit smoking. Two years now.’
Resisting the urge to offer him a trophy, I pour two glasses of Malbec.
‘Cheers.’
Indeed.
We sit, drink. I smoke reds. He speaks of Africa, the beauty, the struggles. I let him preach for hours. The Reverend lectures on Benin, Monrovia, Charles Taylor, Voodoo, slave trade, the Liberian constitution, Goodyear, lack of clean water, killing fields, landmines, cataracts, tumors (tumors!), bushrat, AIDS, old leaders, new leaders, UN policies, globalization. ETC.
‘That’s great Reverend, but how were the women? Surely there were some smoking villagers.’
‘Cracula, I’m a changed man. I’ve taken an oath of celibacy.’
Come again. Cómo? Perdón? No! Dime la verdad. WHAT!?
He justifies and rationalizes longer than necessary, quoting scripture and that sort of thing. The Reverend finishes his rant by reminding me that homosexuality is a sin, though no worse than any other sin (?). Rendered retort-less, I open a fourth bottle of red and mention how much I enjoy his emails.
‘Did you? I put a lot into them.’
He goes on to tell me how on some lonely nights he would mount his PC, sip wine, and picture himself a combination of Hemingway, Indiana Jones, and Robin Hood.
‘Really? I can almost see it.’
He inquires on the status of The Fireman, Flow, Nowe, Tambourine, So, Dark—asks me if I’ve seen his ex-same Shia around.
‘No one’s changed Reverend.’
And how’s my new same same, this Slutskia.
‘She’s the same Reverend. She’ll be back in a few days.’
I open another bottle and he tells me he’s had enough. This from a man that once could drink me under the table! Of course that was pre-oath. I show him his room, his sleeping quarters, and feel something bubbling under his sleeve.
‘Cracula, are you around tomorrow?’
Sure Reverend, I’m around tomorrow.
At some point, I shut my eyes.
estaba soñando
I was inside one of the Cult meeting rooms on 1stand 1st— Kidding Now they called it. Only it was a yoga studio and the whole gang was there. Apparently we had all agreed to an hour of meditation. Nine mats lay on the ground—three by three. A seating chart hung on the wall.
The Fireman was outfitted accordingly—regulation FDI boots, FDI pants—though he wore no shirt and reflexively flexed his oversized pecs. Sitting front and center, his palms faced up, rested on his knees. He pondered the possibility of the other eight spotting a gray hair he overlooked. Had he tanned today? He thanked his metro stars he hadn’t eaten that bowl of rigatoni.
Tambourine was to The Fireman’s right, she effortlessly assumed the lotus position. After all, she was thpiritual these days. In fact, at this moment she legally decided to change her name to Thpirit. She wore bright orange Buddhist monk attire, the first female to do so. Her right breast hanging free.
Slutskia made out the row on the left. The Cracula tattoo had crawled up her back, leaving a serpent’s tail in its wake. The serpent spread, enveloping the poor girl, leaving her only human feature pasty, Russian, carpel-tunneled hands near her tail. Cracula resting between her eyes.
Behind Serpentskia was Aeronymous. He was Japanese—a Sumo! His tire-black hair was braided, splitting the enormity of his back. He was sans tats, save for BAPE across his forehead.
Staring at the back of Tambourine’s head was The Reverend. He took the form of Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus donned in a Supreme Court robe. He stroked his beard.
Behind Jesus stood Dulce. Though when she looked down her mat was gone, replaced by Patpong road. Dulce was a Lady-Boy, virtually unchanged, save Adam’s apple growth.
Left of the Adam’s apple sat a samurai Lousifer, protected by red armor. Samurai sword slung over his back, face battle-ready.
To the warrior’s left was Slave Carsons. He wore a blonde wig—Slutskia blonde—his face done up like a geisha. Above his pink g-string was a Cracula tattoo. He had a belly shirt on that read SON.
I flashed like a cursor in the middle, alternating
vampire
blood bank
vampire
blood bank
Johnny Cash walked in the room, he was to lead the meditation.
‘Good afternoon Ladies, Gentlemen, Serpents, Lady-Boys, Vampires, Jesus.’
Baritone baby. Cash! El hombre.
‘Let’s hang our heads and pray. Heavenly Father, we are gathered here today to elevate the minds of these fine creatures of yours. Lord, help me that I might guide them to a warm place, a clear place, a place that will show their heart’s true desires Lord. We pray that they may see the path ahead of them, that they may take that knowledge Lord, and do with it what they will. Thank you Lord. Amen.’
Johnny.
‘Creatures of God, close your eyes with me now.’
All obliged, save Fireman staring at my lover’s scales. Cabron.
‘Open your souls God’s children, open wider. Allow the Lord to shine a light upon them. Now leave the shell of your physical bodies behind. Float away and rise, rise God’s children. Rise above the mountains, rise above the sea, rise just below the clouds, for you need to see. Below you are all the earth’s oceans. Keep your eyes closed and release your souls onto the water.’
The Fireman began a free fall, a nosedive. Leaving the comforts of Cash’s cloud he picked up velocity as he closed in on the sea. FDI pants vanished, he was speedoed out as he made a Louganis-perfect entry. He carried on, downward. He found himself in the depths of the ocean.
The Fireman got head from a blowfish and took a gander. Taking in the sharks, stingrays, plankton, clams, giant squids, dolphins, crabs, and sperm whales, he vowed to become the biggest fish in the sea. If he were to massacre the ecosystem in the process, so be it. So he huffed and he puffed. An epic wind tossed, tsunamis were birthed, continents shifted. The Fireman turned Typhoon. He grew and grew until he broke the ocean’s surface. Razor in hand, he began to make calls.
‘Hey Cracula, what’s up? Hey, hold on that’s my good friend Lark.’
‘Hey Lark, hold on that’s my good friend Daft.’
‘Hey Daft, hold on that’s my good friend Aria.’
The typhoon gained steam and added arms—a third, a fourth— each with razors.
‘Hey Aria, hold on that’s my good friend He.’
Fifth arm, sixth arm.
‘Hey He, hold on that’s my good friend Hymn.’
‘Hey Hymn, hold on that’s my good friend Spill Rates.’
The Fireman had a million arms—tentacles. A million razors.
The typhoon was a hurricane, the eastern seaboard ravaged.
‘Hey Spill, hold on that’s my good friend The President.’
Category !.
‘Hey Mr. President, hold on that’s my good friend Sharon.’
‘Hey Ariel, hold on that’s my good friend Mahatma.’
Typhoons were birthed in the Dead Sea, North Sea, China Sea, Pacific.
‘Hey Gandhi, hold on that’s my good friend Martin.’
Birmingham burned.
‘Hey King, hold on that’s my good friend Pol.’
Cambodia wept.
‘Hey Mr. Pot hold on that’s my good friend Abe.�
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‘Hey Mr. President, hold on that’s my good friend Taylor.’
Gunshots rang out in Monrovia.
‘Hey Chuck, hold on that’s my good friend God.’
The earth’s oceans boiled.
‘Hey God, hold on that’s my good friend Fred.’
‘Hey man, thanks for the deal. My soul? You got it.’
I remained on hold.
* * *
Tambourine—Thpirit—remained in the clouds. She’d no desire to leave, ever. Already renamed, she decided to be thpirit. Thpirit in action. Combative, passive. Fuck the ocean, she floated upwards.
Blinded by the Sun, she breaststroked though the atmosphere, past the moon. Saturn, Uranus, Neptune in her rear view, she replaced Pluto. Thpirit was resolute in her evolution—she’d no idea it was a revolution.
Pluto downgraded, Thpirit upgraded.
Content on the outskirts of our system, far from the heat, Thpirit was our star’s most distant satellite. She now needed a satellite of her own—a moon. Thpirit being Tambourine, her moon would no doubt be a homoerotic looking fellow named Bill, Bob, or Joe.
Viola! Thpirit settled into her rightful place outside Neptune, where she had not one, but three moons. Bill, Bob, and Joe looked on crescently.
There was no light, no water, no fire. no life Thpirit was content. She had her moons, and she was far from the stars.
* * *
Serpentskia slithered through the air, her stunted paws picking at her slimy scales. perusing the sea
‘Bastaaaard!’
She skipped the waves and headed for an island. Crawling on the beach she sprouted arms, legs, breasts, an asshole. She was Slutskia again, save for the serpent’s tail swinging from Cracula. She rose, walked on, tail dragging in the sand.
Slutskia came upon a single chair. As she took a seat, a mermaid swam to shore. Fins and gills melting into the sand, the mermaid put down a table and umbrella.
‘What can I get you?’
‘What u have?’
‘We have a special today. Free pints of Cracula blood.’
‘OK.’
Sipping my blood and wagging her tail, she caught wind of the ocean. Men rose from the waters, Greek men, Roman soldiers, Goliath, cabana boys, John Wayne. They were to feed her grapes, go down on her.
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