BLACK DOG

there is a black dog on fire in the yard
it does not understand
it does not understand the yard and the mixed blood air

the black dog flexes the muscles of its neck
they are dark ropes on fire
the black dog does not understand why the air smells like mixed blood

the dog shakes the body of a rabbit in its mouth
the rabbit shakes into air
holding up a mist of blood

there is a black dog on fire in the yard
it is a dark bull
it is a dim cave
it does not understand
what makes the air into blood
from the rabbit and the shaking
of its body in his mouth

YOUR BABY DOESN'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE

AND YOUR BODY HURTS AND YOU FEEL STUPID AND DRUNK WITH WHISKEY AND YOU THINK I JUST WANT TO GO TO SLEEP ALREADY

3 STORIES

MUSTANG

Eddie died smashed by his car. His car was red. He made sure of it. He polished the thing until it looked like a blood smear. The last time I saw Eddie he was still alive. He was wearing a white tank top. He was wearing his black hair slicked. He was holding his arms crossed behind his head. He was leaning back in his chair. He was staring up at the sky. It was night. I was drunk. He was stupid. He kept looking at the sky and talking about all the ass and tits in the world. He was talking about his children. He was laughing about my sister's ass. He was yelling about his ex-wife and her devil mother. He was talking about his car. He was talking about his shiny red car.

THE THINGS I MEAN WHEN I SHOUT 'AMERICA'

This is the best we could do.

It is not better anywhere else than here.

I am going to get drunk now.

I was born here.

I am really drunk now.

BRUCE LEE

The uncle is wrong in the head. They were all born together near Salt Creek. 10 children and one widow. The men became alcoholics and the women had nervous breakdowns. They were not born in America. Now the uncle lives in a hospital in Miami. He calls himself Bruce Lee. The widow does not speak English. She smuggled goods across a border. When the children go to visit him he remembers some things. The dog in the courtyard. The rat in the pantry. The steps to the bus stop. The son who is not the oldest is now the leader. He organizes trips to visit the uncle in Miami. The widow comes along. They all speak with the uncle in his room. He always asks about the dog in the courtyard. Is it still there? When they come home they forget it was a vacation. They think Maybe he will wake up someday. Maybe he will remember everything. The widow has his phone number posted on the refrigerator. Above it is written the name BROSS LEE.

CYLINDERS

You understand color. You take it into your hands. You put it around your room. You look for a rhythm. You shape them together like cylinders. You place your hands on it. You feel it and understand the heat. You hold your hand above flame. You are blind and every color is a different flame with a different heat. You understand color because you understand heat.

Your face, it looks stupid when you eat. You don't know that people are disgusted when they see you eating, when they see you working to keep yourself alive. You offend rooms full of people when you walk into them. You know this because you can feel all the heat coming off of their bodies like flames licking all over you. You can feel all the swelling beneath the broadcloth or the flannel or the lace and the silk but it all feels just like fire pushing out some new heat.

You think of the world in cylinders because you are blind and no one has been able to explain to you exactly what cylinder is. They talk to you about sidewalks and revolving doors but no one knows how to describe to you the shape that does little else but be its own curious unit of matter. They use words like 'round' and 'cylindrical'.

And even yet, you understand cylinder like you understand color like you understand the cones and rods your body does not have a home for. You are cylinder when you do not stop at the recognition of color but at the understanding of it. You understand your form as any possible configuration in the universe and that a cylinder is simple one of those configurations but what the fuck is it then? What else is it except the thing no one can explain? What else is it but the exact fucking key to all of it? The thing that will bore into your head a cavity to be filled with cones and rods. A home from which to restore your sight but not your understanding of cylinder. Something that will show you color but not explain heat.

WINDOWS

In my room there is a wall made up entirely of windows. The wall of windows is made up of four windows. The room has seven windows in all. The perfect number. And I want seven windows in my room so that everyone on the street can have the chance to see me because I am perfect.

THE KINGDOM

The main character in my cosmic horror novel finds himself in a pickle.

I have invented this genre, cosmic horror.

I have invented the main character, an extension of myself, finding himself in a pickle.

The pickle is this.

The poor sap falls victim to a barrage of symbols.

It's true.

Suddenly (yes, suddenly); something like a door opens and everything spills out.


The poor soul experiences true despair in his flux through the Kingdom.

This is what he calls it.

He calls it the Kingdom and he uses it refer to everything, to the universe, to himself.

It becomes something like his catch phrase.

He says it so many times that by the end the phrase has gathered a momentum.


I read a story about singing lions yesterday.

The story went something like.

The lions find themselves in a pickle.


The cosmic horror genre suffered a serious blow in 1986 when I was born and grew up to inevitably invent it.

The cosmic horror genre used to be locked up behind something like a door.

The door was opened and the cosmic horror genre is what spilled out.

I turned my hand into a lock and opened the door.


Cosmic horror literature is marked by hands turning into locks.

And people bent over slinging their hand locks.

Cosmic horror literature is marked by the power of decision and also by the flux of the Kingdom.

The flux of the Kingdom is a central theme in cosmic horror.

Only when a character turns his hands into locks and comes to terms with his ever-changing identity within the flux of this Kingdom, is he allotted a new amount of horror with which to come to terms.


Now I am in pickle: when my character falls victim to a barrage of symbols the poor sap gives up.

He chooses to discontinue his learning in the universe.

He choose to turn his back on the Kingdom.

So in the end his dad is crying over his bruised body.

Beating his lock hands on his son's stupid unlearned body

Repeating:

"Boy, is this a pickle...."