The Milk of Venus--20

"The dialectic admits no intimacy with earthly things.
Before dawn, staring into night's spill over Baby's
left face; and even before that, the screen rubbing
salty dreams from my eyes. The dialectic wakes with a
boner the exact size and width of beauty. A dark
gurgles a rain gullet lucky in these dimensions. You
know? With days the weight of dove-shaped puddles.
It's like I said to Baby the other day, who was
looking wilty: 'In what way does it mean? I can hold
it in your hand, turn it over, blow on it to evoke
signals. Are we crashing through the shadows I've
accumulated for clouds?' Beyond that, traffic
glistening like an artifact of figs. A bitchy old lady
asks if I know what a car-phone is. DO I EVER! She
likes what I'm doing on all fronts. But it's not just
the sliding that gets me. Sure, finding a place to sit
down in the flood. I dream of complicating systems.
Those twisted trees out there, looking dead at me; new
orange sunset pellets to eat the snow."
We knew it would be a while before we got there, but
it was Spring, and the space around us was ripening,
and the moon hung above the car like a ring of milk on
a black table without coasters. We took only what was
important to us: two packs of cigarettes each; the
clothes on our backs; casual symmetries; amplified
particulars; the places we'd never see again. If
either of us thought we wouldn't get there, neither of
us mentioned it. Miles of the road's pull, of weather
wavering between rain and lucidity.
"I wonder if these sunset patches of new salt on the
blacktop flowered there like coronas of coloring on a
snake's hide, or if they spattered from truck exhaust
in some recent impregnable winter pierced through with
ephemeral ice. I hand a bitchy old lady a car phone,
do I ever, and these shadows I've collected in lieu of
clouds drip down the horizon like chocolate cake on a
baby's face. Sephiroth ample with wide windchime
howler money. The dialectic wanders the strewn
villages like smoke. It is said that one whiff of the
dialectic's presence will daub bloody crosses on your
front door. Rod and cones if animal analogue's goals
coffee with a felt-tip pen sensations aerobic
instructions walked what chill off she could. A whole
day. You would try to measure fragments by the
preservation of violating head's foliage suffused with
withering heartbeat. With your hands I blow on it; it
shits ciphers. Those days you were in the throes of
the baboon's dusky buttocks. If I take digit photos of
aerials adjacent to baptist crosses. My fingers freely
ovulate. You know. Spinning a lackluster milk. As it
goes on it becomes huge, creaky: creepy. Baby frowns
at my eyeless progeny; they tap their passages down
sacriligious hallways with shimmer fingers that
taut-touch too wildly these soft hidden spheres. Minor
irritants human in fluorescent stroke victory lost to
the trickle of puddle grammar in my lap and sigh, as
blind as."
It was midnight when we hit Amalga. A smoky moon
shivered above the draconian smokestacks, moaning a
harvest-yellow glaze over the thatched rooftops of
dark huts. The streets weren't as deserted as we'd
planned for (shufflers fumbled over curbs, marking
space with soft scrapes of summer sandal), but Baby
thought that was all the better. This was, after all,
where they came from, all the hopeless, dim ones who
slip through their lives with narrow eyes, the ones
who support war and prohibition and white skin and
privilege; they drove cars bigger than houses. I felt
like I'd stepped over some invisible threshold into
the pit where all restless sleep comes from.
And like all restless sleepers, I was haunted by
dreams of the past. Staples Mill Lake shimmered
translucently just below the coarse fabric of adobe
hovels, business campuses and dust that was Amalga in
the blindness of too-early or too-late morning.
Squirrels were playing there, peppering the green
banks with furtive darts. Baby was convinced we'd go
back there soon, when we were done in Amalga, but I
knew it was going to be a long time before we skated
together on the ice of the lake again.
"The grid was laid out before us, as pretty and
suburban as you please. The dialectic points out the
slides in every driveway, the gaudy silver department
store coin-operated rocketship rides grinding down to
blips and giggles. Children everywhere, stopped in
mid-play and staring at us. Don't move! The sunset
pellets turned out to be a new kind of salt for eating
snow. With white smeared in an immaculate tear across
her mouth. I howl static, tassles; elevators
aerobicize the dancing syndromes just supper on a
grill beneath car-stars rusting. 'Sirens accumulate on
Staples Mill road like shadows only lend their bodies
to fog, greased almost seamless as a way to shape pain
into noise-deadened id. Outside the door at work. '
Ran down the aisles, infernally giggling, daubing
bloody crosses with sex crucified in their sticky
middles while someone stabs someone in a laundromat
Baby and I used to go to, where you used to work,
unraveling the semiosis of javelins buckled table
shakes with employed transgressions of movement,
folded over. The logic of this country's foreign
policy seems to be: I'll hit you because you may hit
me. Meanwhile, hills lull ulcers from earth-rude
rumors, or all roads sunshine wayward yardwork over
rhododendron in dimples. I call the president on the
car phone, but all I get is a bitchy old lady
whimpering in a sea of frozen cats. Static can be
molded. Spores branch gimlet piston folders in prisons
of tamper-evident saline docility."
We crouched in the jaggged beerbottle shards of a
drunken alley and put our plan into action.
We unpacked our epuipment: a saw, some knives, needle
and thread.
We would take turns luring them in. We'd had time on
the road to perfect some ruses for this. And then
there was blunt force.
Bracing myself, I gripped the vial of chloroform in
my pocket.

2003/01/03 15:15:02–2003/01/12 11:40:49





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Anningan (in progress) http://www.lewislacook.com/Anningan/AnningansDoor.html
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meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/


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