Conspiracy of Firmaments, pt. 3
one of these days
i'll just
disappear
like the fat black cannibal king of africa
the bushybearded Russian magician
pull up coat and tails and medicine bag
disappear
follow that yellow line in the middle of the road
down on forever
and it'll be
just like dying
wink at the streetsigns
head out to
brand new identity stores
that line the unassuming streets
i open drawers
next to motel beds
there is a bible and a gun
in the ceiling i will pierce every vein, ruin
saturdays and wedding beds
no one should get married
any place i can afford
laying down, looking up
darkness overtakes pinholes dotting the ceiling
an evergrowing maroon
spreadingswelling
raining drywall
dam bursts
...that commercial they used to run?
an old man is being chased
by a wave of cranberry juice?
that's me
in a bed with a coinslot
gummed and electrical taped
floating sheets in a pool of blood
a pipe called barrel
fogs an island of table
where an alarm clock
lays down facing up
next to gun and bible
and a telephone
that acts as an alarm clock
I wake up clean. Squaky even. I don't really know what rested feels like so I call it a reverse hangover. It's cute. I hope I meet someone today so I can tell them that. I start to write a letter on the hotel stationary, but I've got nothin to say. That's a lie. I just want to make em wait. I look at the phone. I look away. I flip through channels til checkout.
I'm wearing a dark blue denim jacket this girl Jackie left at my house. I admire the button. One had a skull, some guns, an airplane on fire. No one will recognize these bands once I leave the state, I realize. I put them in the safe in the closet by the door. Safekeeping. They'll be here whenever I come back and I can grab em. When there's no one else around to do it, I lie to myself to pass time. I pull the chain and close the door behind me.
There was this book I found at the library when I was eight. It was forty pages long and all about the thumb. The copyright was 1968 and there was no author. It talked abut how thumbs made men special. I ripped out the last page and folded it nicer than any piece of paper I've folded before or since. On one side it had a drawing of an X-ray of a thumb. The other side was blank. When I was eight I made a list of all the things I could do with my thumb on the blank side. Over the years I would add to it. Some were silly. The fist two were stick it in my nose and thumbwrestle. Some were profane. Gouge out a Viet Cong's eyes. Stick it up a girl Whenever I was sent to my room, I'd find the list and feel better because of how stupid it was.
Outside of the motel, the heat whipped at my face, even the trees along the highway were suffering. You're not supposed to make big life decisions on days like this but you always seem to. I pulled a pair of sunglasses from my pocket. They hung oddly on my face. I spit in the dirt and watched it dry up with sand. A beetle crawled over my foot, I shook it off. My mouth was dry and my reverse hangover hadn't prepared me for the sun in August. Which is when the sun hangs over your head by only a few feet. I patted myself down to make sure I had everything. I swung my bag over my shoulder with my toe in the dirt and headed for the highway.
My name is John Radcliffe. My right thumb is 2.9 inches long, with a scar under the nail from when I was three. It can do a great many things. Today, with any luck, it'll get me to California.
i'll just
disappear
like the fat black cannibal king of africa
the bushybearded Russian magician
pull up coat and tails and medicine bag
disappear
follow that yellow line in the middle of the road
down on forever
and it'll be
just like dying
wink at the streetsigns
head out to
brand new identity stores
that line the unassuming streets
i open drawers
next to motel beds
there is a bible and a gun
in the ceiling i will pierce every vein, ruin
saturdays and wedding beds
no one should get married
any place i can afford
laying down, looking up
darkness overtakes pinholes dotting the ceiling
an evergrowing maroon
spreadingswelling
raining drywall
dam bursts
...that commercial they used to run?
an old man is being chased
by a wave of cranberry juice?
that's me
in a bed with a coinslot
gummed and electrical taped
floating sheets in a pool of blood
a pipe called barrel
fogs an island of table
where an alarm clock
lays down facing up
next to gun and bible
and a telephone
that acts as an alarm clock
I wake up clean. Squaky even. I don't really know what rested feels like so I call it a reverse hangover. It's cute. I hope I meet someone today so I can tell them that. I start to write a letter on the hotel stationary, but I've got nothin to say. That's a lie. I just want to make em wait. I look at the phone. I look away. I flip through channels til checkout.
I'm wearing a dark blue denim jacket this girl Jackie left at my house. I admire the button. One had a skull, some guns, an airplane on fire. No one will recognize these bands once I leave the state, I realize. I put them in the safe in the closet by the door. Safekeeping. They'll be here whenever I come back and I can grab em. When there's no one else around to do it, I lie to myself to pass time. I pull the chain and close the door behind me.
There was this book I found at the library when I was eight. It was forty pages long and all about the thumb. The copyright was 1968 and there was no author. It talked abut how thumbs made men special. I ripped out the last page and folded it nicer than any piece of paper I've folded before or since. On one side it had a drawing of an X-ray of a thumb. The other side was blank. When I was eight I made a list of all the things I could do with my thumb on the blank side. Over the years I would add to it. Some were silly. The fist two were stick it in my nose and thumbwrestle. Some were profane. Gouge out a Viet Cong's eyes. Stick it up a girl Whenever I was sent to my room, I'd find the list and feel better because of how stupid it was.
Outside of the motel, the heat whipped at my face, even the trees along the highway were suffering. You're not supposed to make big life decisions on days like this but you always seem to. I pulled a pair of sunglasses from my pocket. They hung oddly on my face. I spit in the dirt and watched it dry up with sand. A beetle crawled over my foot, I shook it off. My mouth was dry and my reverse hangover hadn't prepared me for the sun in August. Which is when the sun hangs over your head by only a few feet. I patted myself down to make sure I had everything. I swung my bag over my shoulder with my toe in the dirt and headed for the highway.
My name is John Radcliffe. My right thumb is 2.9 inches long, with a scar under the nail from when I was three. It can do a great many things. Today, with any luck, it'll get me to California.
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