Nothing Matters: A Noir Love Story

by Steve Finbow

  Nothing Matters

  By

  Steve Finbow

  Get on with it, keep moving, keep in, speed, the nerves, their speed, the perceptions, theirs, the acts, the split second acts, the whole business, keep it moving as fast as you can, citizen.

  ~ Charles Olson

  Nothing Matters

  By Steve Finbow

  Edited by Brian Lindenmuth

  Published by Snubnose Press at Amazon

  The copyright belongs to the author unless otherwise noted. 2012. All rights reserved.

  Kindle Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  First Kindle Original Edition, 2012

  Cover Design: Eric Beetner

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Note: Nothing Matters is presented here in two versions. The first is the poem version that it was originally intended to be read in. The second is a prose version. The text of both is the same.

  Points South

  from here,

  everything moves towards

  a conclusion

  get ready…

  get set…

  go…

  wake knowing to escape, get out of here

  get out

  get

  go

  escape the last refuge for there comes a time in life

  when escape becomes the only choice

  to flee

  to run away

  to get the hell out before mulling over other options,

  other decisions made

  fishtail out of city

  in hurry to put distance between us

  never use that word again Z would say—

  first-person plural—objective

  fuck that

  objective?

  fuck off

  just before alarm sounded, turned over, looked at Z,

  wished & hoped it would be last time

  air in room fetid with wrong choices,

  stale emotions

  once on road, wound down window, cicadas

  ratcheting up their scratchy instruments

  desert wind, riding shotgun, cooled fever

  looked at Z’s closed eyes, a certain momentum

  lies, doubts, slow dismantling of desire—no more

  physical

  but never

  violent

  violence bubbled

  under, simmered away,

  drawing out kick from usual ingredients of need,

  detachment

  made promise not to do it

  to add one more to ledger

  what fucking ledger?

  but that last night, spilled

  over, left Z in puddle of silk, pool of lace, imprint

  of brass knuckles on high derisive cheekbones

  now lonesome highway; straight road, no

  switchbacks or

  u-turns, no

  stoplights or patrol cars

  look

  in rear-view mirror, see

  residue of Z—pupils & irises, double eclipse of neptune

  shake head to clear image,

  gun car to ton-plus,

  hoping breeze will cleanse

  look in rear-view mirror, say,

  “what should I do?”

  reflection replies,

  “keep going, I suppose”

  armadillos or giant wood lice dying in the road

  how has love turned

  to hate? Worse

  how has love

  turned to indifference?

  but then, love is not a thing to be turned

  like milk

  love is nothing solid,

  an abstract thing made up of hormones, flesh, words—

  hormones you didn’t know existed, flesh you could not control,

  words you would never use in other circumstances

  fuck those words

  fuck language

  fuck love

  love will not be named

  could not

  do not know love’s brand

  have no idea of its make

  whatever it is we had is now no longer that thing the poets call love obsession? lust?

  watch buzzards wheel overhead drunk on shifting thermals comes

  splash of dark red urine on windscreen

  honey-colored land speeds by

  long lizard’s tongue of road ahead

  sucked under wheels

  ghost of body in trunk of car

  not hers

  ghost of body of last victim

  Z’s last victim

  to spin it that way

  oh, Z never got hands dirty mine mired

  in countless acts of death

  Z sketched the butterflies arriving first,

  careful not to burden their wings with blood

  then Z in bathroom showering cutting up body outside

  in courtyard, in fountain, water kaleidoscopic in midday sun

  stripped it

  shredded clothes drained blood

  used hacksaw to partition—

  head, legs, arms, torso

  silhouetted countries, puzzle books,

  black mass of poland or hungary, czechoslovakia or france

  Z asked

  like the others

  thought of Z with another man throbbed inside

  until only way to quell was to kill

  that man who had been in Z’s arms,

  between Z’s legs,

  on Z’s mind

  took too long to leave

  going now

  moving fast

  see coyotes play tug-of-war with ragged sinew

  swore to never get involved with a woman like Z

  three years ago,

  fundraising event—

  black tie & eat-all-you-can for starving in africa affair—

  head of security for events company

  Z date of local politician big in unheard of small town

  working crowd

  unsure what to look for

  dash of minor celebrities,

  splash of local businessmen,

  mess of women sculpted by surgeons & dieticians to look pinched,

  shiny & angular—human arrows

  Z stood out skin, sallow not gucci, fresh peppering of freckles

  hair, chestnut brown not bleached blonde, hung naturally to nape of neck

  lips showed no sign of botox, framed by parenthetical laughter lines,

  color of ripe three-balls

  eyes, grey—sometimes silver, sometimes lead, always gunmetal—

  flashed lilac flames when Z smiled

  saw moths explode in puffs of powdery scales

  out of corner of eye, watched Z move about room in green silk dress,

  shaking hands, gently squeezing arms, air-kissing cheeks

  left eye—slightly lazy, wandering away from stares of men,

  seeking sanctuary in quieter recesses of ballroom

  ignored flushes & blushes, grinding of teeth,

  brow sweats, collar tugs, armpit bur
ns

  end of evening, Z & date waiting for valet to bring car, said,

  “good night, ma’am,”

  Z smiled, reached to shake, pressed something into hand, looked at nametag,

  said,

  “good night, mr X”

  crumpled note in palm,

  slipped it into inside jacket pocket later,

  took it out, smoothed it flat

  note contained line of numbers

  stared down at them

  jackpot

  maybe not

  see, in fountain, pigeons preen petrol feathers

  three days later, called

  met fucked left loitered called

  Z reneged called again

  Z lied third time lucky

  Z relented

  three days later

  met fucked Z left

  followed still am

  still was

  obsession—second skin—true nature of beast

  breathed Z’s air as Z passed, ripples

  Z made in world, turbulence flowing behind—

  a satin cape, diaphanous robe of skin cells

  tasted it flicked tongue out at spores of Z

  atomized

  luxuriated in Z’s particularness

  graceful in awkwardness, lazy in stride, sunglasses

  reflecting only Z in the mirrored windows

  dogs sniff at invisible things long departed

  big house spanish with venusian highlights

  parked down street watched gates swing open

  german, italian & jap cars,

  automotive meeting of axis powers

  saw dogs, sleek yet muscled, black & edgy—crystal night out in hades

  complicated shadows played out of recesses

  stretching aerobically to vast expanse of drive,

  hymn to emptiness,

  clear sign of money

  man crunched white stones

  under pale blue loafers

  beneath tanned calves

  under cream chino shorts

  beneath paler blue polo shirt

  under face stretched clean & clear

  beneath hair color of wet stones

  husband husband—jew-boy realtor,

  sometime movie producer,

  stallion in stock market,

  my little pony in boudoir

  Z liked it rough, preferably rougher liked it anal

  & finished when Z said so

  Z’s hebe hubby didn’t care sometimes paid

  to watch observer spy

  Z took on all comers thought Z could be tamed

  wrong

  see cats merge with shadows,

  moving from light to dark

  first to go—Z’s long-time lover,

  pretty-boy politician

  waited for him—mission control

  waiting for window in weather

  one day, two days, three sun came out scratch itch

  sky turned liquid blue urged blotting out of memories

  see snakes coil in irreversible technologies of existence

  somewhere in the night, shadow on the wall, black angel,

  mirage, street of chance, memento amnesia movies—

  characters can’t remember killing chick, bookie, pimp

  not a thing

  nada

  have to piece it together—jigsaw puzzle,

  jigsaw puzzle without picture on box,

  without box

  pale fissured bubble of brain stretched wetly, devoid of

  things, people, voices, places, vast expanse of nothingness—

  no me, no I, no you, no they—

  characterless desert, sand ripples

  whistling an unremembered tune reverse

  reverse live in crowded city

  peopled by earthlings, venusians, martians

  riding hippogriffs & spotted unicorns,

  where buildings hurtle into mother-of-pearl sky

  piercing saffron clouds

  raining down static electricity that boils on pavements,

  turns to minuscule diamonds reflecting

  back billions upon billions of fractured images

  of city’s dwellers,

  sharpens voices,

  amplifies cacophony,

  fuels desires

  anti-amnesia

  remember everything, clickclick,

  details, clickclick,

  meat & potatoes, clickclick,

  nuts & bolts, clickclick

  also tiny things, minutiae:

  earwax ingrained in pinkie fingernail,

  cat’s claw shining in bottom of cuff, greyish

  grain of rice in snowy wad of sushi

  clickclick

  good

  was

  see salamanders writhe together in intimate rapture

  rear-view mirror—solidified representation

  of past,

  catch glimpse of billboard advertising local car dealership

  faded signs for s**** them* p***

  scribble of railway lines, pastel blocks,

  a strange tail, spine-like drooping into picture

  remember, clickclick, sound of tires

  rolling over body,

  lift & tilt of vehicle moving slowly, pitching—

  lake-tossed rowing boat later,

  lilt & heft of Z’s voice, crystal chandelier

  caught in summer breeze

  tinkling heavy, heard on wind amidst

  summer picnic, far away, long ago

  never forget, clickclick,

  way he squealed & begged, way he

  pissed & shat his pants, way he

  crawled out to car bay, sun scribbling

  quick yellow lines in pooling blood, way tire

  tread left Maori tattoos across

  dying body

  Z lapped it up

  on knees, mouth

  stretched around cock,

  dorsal vein & dorsal artery

  pulsing electrical networks,

  driving, pushing, feeling

  static blue ozone reek of come,

  feel Z swallow, watch

  Z lap up escaping drops,

  feel neck muscles relax,

  hear final groan—

  spent,

  spent,

  spent

  maple trees, leaves falling like a million jagged bronze sails

  afterwards, Z didn’t call for two weeks, said

  wanted time to think, said

  wasn’t sure we’d done the right thing, said

  couldn’t remember asking

  fickleness of memory

  remembering words clickclick remembering

  their finality & promise for & of a future remembering

  them, clickclick, jewels & precious stones embedded in forehead,

  foreskin,

  forever

  remember finding carmine satin thong in jacket pocket,

  lady’s favor carried into battle,

  material manifestation of blood to flow that flowed & flowed

  & wouldn’t stop

  see crows slash thru sky, flickering

  shadows of elapsed time

  Z said it all started…

  Asshole of the World

  …the day after mother died. I realized

  I could get men to do my bidding,

  that I could get what I wanted.

  Need is an empty shopping bag

  but desire is a list, a long one

  with all the goodies included.

  Thirteen years old, skinny as a stick of spaghetti,

  no breasts to speak of, long legs

  but about as syncopated as a two-legged Bambi,

  I knew how to use my eyes,

  use my lips,

  use my mind.

  Still do.

  Age may have calmed me,

  but memory and instinct drive me on.

  Darkness is just the flipside

  of light, night

>   the twin of day.

  Daddy, off on one of his trips to Las Vegas,

  bimbo-sidekick, bankroll in his pocket

  matching the bulge in his jockeys,

  left me in the safe and capable hands

  of the maid and the gardener.

  And being looked after,

  looked over,

  looked at,

  waited on and spoiled,

  that’s how I grew up—

  humanity was there to serve me.

  Serve me right.

  Mummy’s funeral still two days away, Daddy said

  he’d be back in good time and would bring me a present if I were good.

  “And if I’m bad?” I said.

  He smiled and replied, “I’ll still bring you one.”

  And he did, a gold necklace

  with two gold die encrusted with tiny diamonds

  the size of the sparkle in my left eye.

  I still have it. I had it made into an ankle bracelet.

  When I walk,

  it’s double sixes all the way—

  midnight, midnight, midnight.

  Daddy also bought me

  a first edition Fowler’s Modern English Usage.

  I wore it out.

  The spine broken, the pages foxed,

  coming apart, drifting to the floor,

  autumn leaves of language.

  Joined on the shelf later at college by my beloved

  Longman Grammar of Spoken and Written English,

  Of Grammatology,

  S/Z

  Linguistics major—MA, PhD, Francophile.

  Daddy drove out the gate in a cloak of Thunderbird fumes,

  the maid and her husband waving him goodbye.

  If I had to paint a portrait of my father,

  that’s what it would be—

  a speeding car lost in plumes of dust and heat shimmer,

  an arm stretched into the air as a sign of farewell.

  The gardener, Raoul,

  worked shirtless and shoeless, cotton shorts

  reached just past his knees. Wiry, his body

  glistened with California sweat, his dark skin

  made darker by the loam he took from bags

  and rubbed on his chest and arms.

  Now, when I smell the earth, when I

  walk in forests or even visit garden centers,

  my panties become a little moist, my mind

  begins to manipulate, a wry smile

  crosses my lips, a cat over rooftops.

  He liked the smell, he said, it was good for the flowers,

  the plants,

  the fruits.

  Good for grounding himself.