Incandescent Crying Eyes
“And sometimes I have seen what men have thought they saw.” – The Drunken Boat
Ripe, he watched her shadow go…
Shadow go, and don’t show up again
And we run aground again. I collapsed in the silt. “Make sure this doesn’t happen again,” I ordered, licking the blood from my wrists (I suffered in those days from stigmata).
It all went down in a temple under the full blood moon. The people were decently clothed and all very virtuous. When the rapes began, the virgins were caught by surprise, and even the screams could not curdle the moon, rosy-cheeked and bleary.
The dawn brought with it the war drums and the mercenaries from the sea fought the insurgents who fell, one by one, on the far side of the picket fence. Where are the prize-winning roses? What happened to the heirloom apple seeds?
They filled the greenhouse with the rotting remains of slaughtered pigs and hid a few children in the bottom of the pile.
They found them hiding under the stairs.
They heard what God said to Abraham on the mount, and they heard Abraham’s internal monologue of rejection.
No one is that intelligent. No one is that deserving. No one is worth it. I slipped away, tipping the waiter and signing a line for my name.
In the back of the movie theater, my fingers creeping up the inside of her leg, I whispered a threat into her ear as I licked it. It tasted like good Catholic whiskey. “I’m a Protestant,” I said, the devil in my tongue and archangels sleeping in my eyes.
I was not the only one, but I was the only true Protestant. The rest of them wanted sex. They were all about her ass. They wanted to fuck her with me in her ass. “Absolutely not,” I said.
I threw them out of my house and threatened to call the police. I threw away all the evidence and drank the rest of the alcohol before anyone else could get hold of it. The pressure of the universe increased and I felt panic set in. I was being tested. There were blinking lights and repetitive beeps. They were testing my awareness. “I took some adderall but it didn’t help me focus,” I said with a laugh. “Maybe that means I need it.”
Quickly – before the nausea sets in – I construct a cube-shaped room with brushed steel walls, floor, and ceiling. The cube rotates in space and I touch it’s cold, perfect steel, breathing the fresh metal air into my lungs and calming my nerves. The sickness subsides and I relax on the floor, legs crossed, and meditate, the back of my head resting against steel. Steel is all around me.
A beam of light – a revelation – “This isn’t steel! This is titanium!”
As in Autumn, when we hung from the long ropes that rang the church bells, and the heavy meditative gong of the bells rang out across the old world, full and resonant, I felt her skin close to mine and I tried to slip inside it, safe and sound. The arctic air descended the city, blowing in from the highlands and bringing the young ice of winter. We fucked on the cobblestone while my shithead friend took a shit at the foot of the alley. The arctic air stimulated my senses and I exposed myself bare to the cosmos.
“I may be ultra-modern, but I am not a city boy.” In his world, ultra-modern was a state of mind, an invention of the original river valley civilizations. In the fertile river valley, where the weather is calm and the sun always nurturing, in the pastoral, that is the rational grave of modernity.
But the city loomed, monolithic, and beckoned to him; it diverted the rivers towards its own aquifers, and the countryside tithes were redirected to the coffers of the central church. The ghost of man and the spirit of art drifted, like moths, towards the monolith, drawn out in black light like all of the problems of the world, a blur of words incomprehensible and slipping always farther out of sight. Memories changed, money disappeared, and the nobility turned back into dust; statues of people who never existed, stakes in bodies that were never there, sons and daughters of the collective imagination. I fell asleep in a dream where I belonged, once before, in the comfortable web of mechanistic non-reality, the parable, wetly floating towards the source…
The good doctor bled me and gouged out my eyes. “I can’t see, doc,” I said, and he took out his eye-doctor utensil and scooped them right out.
“How do you feel?” He asked.
“I feel better,” I said.
When day broke I arrived in Africa. The white sand shores burned the pads of my feet and I carried my dog on my shoulders towards the village. We rented a jeep and disappeared into the heart of the continent.
As if on camels, in the Gobi desert, we set out as a family from the ruins of Ulan Bator, so did the lone ranger, the courier drone, the fucked-up medicine man with his illegal surprise, pass without time through the passages of sages and kings. The tsar has been murdered, his family raped – there can be no turning back again. There is no such thing as home anymore. There is nothing anymore to return to.
I got drunk and the cum sprayed out of my cock again, running down the inside of my leg and over my ankles…
When they were hungry, they ate. When they were cold, they sat by the fire. When they were warm, they turned on the air conditioner. When they were tired, they rested. When they were bored, they worked. When they were in pain, they took painkillers. When they were depressed, they took drugs. When they were horny, they had sex together, like children, and a single twinkling star shone down on their backs.
That was the time of their lives. And to that, there would be no going back again. No memorial service. No one else had to die in the desert. The secret was dead.
And so I lost the will to linger… I went back to my room, and I opened the bible… and I remembered the past…