Woman sitting on top of a tree masturbating. Kevin’s Dream, one night, of runaways and shooflies and Kevin’s old girlfriend, Maggie, was a Mormon. Mormon with a passionate love for pussy and kissing dogs and sitting on top of trees masturbating in time with the rhythm of the car as it drove down the highway far along. Down the road, somewhere in West Virginia, sits a woman with a scar she don’t know where it came along the bottom of her soul is scraped the man of a name she once knew. Even farther back, when the wind was solid pieces loving to embrace the solitary kiss of morning’s touch. Stripping naked in the Serengetti desert, I saw a tribesman going across the plain in search of deer. Waterless, flush and drain, the sweat of Mother’s love; she pauses around 1913, wipes her forehead, and returns to the kitchen. Not the kitchen of a house, but underground, the kitchen of the underworks and panty lining of the world.
“Big ass tampon, if you ask me.”
“Whose is this? Look, it goes all the way up to your chest.”
“That tampon doubles as an emergency flotation device,” he said, joking. But I hope he’s right, because we sure could use something like that right now. A flotation device, or some kind of Savior, you understand, because none of us had formal training in this field. And what are we to do? Dig in and wash the windows of the sky long and done and dusty in my eye. Sneaking from the back to hold a candle mercy God he’s coming through the camera lenses focused to, fusing precision in the hull of a converted trailer home sweet river running through the crack between my legs the shiver of a momentary shawl upon your head I thought you were dying for a second, crushed beneath the Greyhound charter nonstop to the desert. There we are again, swallow, as truth is nothing but a differential consistency of arbitrary Constance. An old friend. Acquaintance really, but what’s the score. Blood in this ring, bone in the other. Radiant fever burns the brightest right before we lose power. There it goes, blackness, blanket, bludgeoning. Tool. Merciful Almighty we sing your praises hinting at the core of man’s designing gene. What do you know, it was all Mendelian after all. Safe and sound without a friend among the empty cosmic skrye. Into the sun, will you, break the pinpoint eclipse rules and find yourself staring into the optic nerve of timeless fury, anguishing eternally sound. Peace. Be with you brother; brother, what a night. Kicking myself in the head for my own lack of agility I end up tied in knots I tied myself and yet I perceive that another’s fingers might work those strands more deftly than could I. Pinkles tinkles antlers yearning for the sunny skies above I think you’re there upon that hill and so I chase your primrose panties out on the lawn and lay you there to fuck you heavenly. Or so I think. But though the sex is good we walk away and gone the hill is made of paper money Barbie blinks her plastic eye and I see that my fresh discovery is…what?…nothing but Chex Party Mix®?…nothing but graham crackers in a plastic baggie?! Wrapped by my mother before I even went to school but now the graduation is over and my tassel swings only in tiny quantum motions behind my closet door. That’s what my professors tell me, anyway, I don’t see movement of any kind, least of all the quantum hammering of a dead cat but you can buy my products anyway, cause guess what, I don’t test on animals. Of course, I also simultaneously do test on animals so how’s that for a consumer base. You think so, motherfucker? What? You thought I wouldn’t mind? You thought I wouldn’t notice that you’re sitting in my chair sifting through the carpals of my tunnel, digging some of your own, picking up your nose and up your butt with wide eyes, hands flexing eagerly, awaiting the golden nugget…
Streamlined from the shifting of her hair, a tigress’ lair, may fate be fair. There, awaits the beauty and the tangle that I seek, inseparation that is singularly existent from an external perspective, that of me, another face among the masses of enumeration impossible from the setting of a single chair. Birds. Beasts. A flock upon the house of leaves, trash upturned, and ash that burned our mangled prayer is now the pleasantry of a ten minutes nap. We wake to scream, to wander aimless in the inbetween, raking endless gardens in this feathered heather, Kevin’s Dream.