Lo Siento
by Rafer Nelsen
The lights went out in Seattle.
A two-timing fishstick drifted westward to the tune of an overpaid
rock-n-roll junkie cum laude. Our lines are meant to be the toothpaste of a different
generation, not some peeing one-eyed dog, three-legged chair shareholder's dream
machine propped up by a hooker's broken leather panties stained orange by some
cowardly act of penal vengeance. We
walk to a different beat, a salmon fishery four-note, two-timing wind instrument
of destruction. Only French Fried
potatoes crackle more than the empty wares of our libido-less leaders sitting
pink and warty in overstuffed leather valises, pretending the monkey on their
back is really just some stuffed chicken breast paid for by the grand mama
delivered by a Chicano rage in ragged circa 1943 type set.
Why talk of salamander souls when white witches brew danger ale in the
neighborhoods of downtrodden draft animals, sunken mules taken for granted after
hauling the Bay of Tonkin geology lesson one vertical mile up from the very
riverbed of the Colorado River, Northwest Arizona, some C-word plateau, the
ancient thirsting grounds of a people destined to become Aztecs, an Atztán, or
something or other, land-use permit allowing for the boiling and utter
destruction of oddly shaped potatoes and black babies?
Why shape destiny with a cookie cutter when cloven loaves of Christmas
bread stand on end in anticipation of a better spread than the one they'll
ultimately receive? A bath in
congealed vegetable blood, rotting rhino and hippo steaks bringing the stench of
utter darkness down upon the toiling hoards of buffalo men, stalked night and
day by genetically altered timber wolves, green eyes glowing in the blaze of
canine, no, lupus rage, a thirst for revenge sought against countless who
poisoned rat cabbages with South American dart phrases, "Arturo se sienta
muy mal. Voy a ver que passa alla.
Dos personas son atrapadas en un tunnel.
Un accidente reelemente horible."
But who sleeps with whom?
The time has come for real men to admit one great failure, just one, and
to walk backward through a sea of difficult bank ladies waving green jello beans
in a gesture of frank aggression. Those
ladies pretend to be friendly, bend over far, elongated nipples sucked into a
menopausal frenzy some thirty years hence by a now dandy fart boy babbling
rubbish in a neo-romance tongue-n-cheek episode of Chapeau Melon et Bottes de
Cuir, great areolas of rosy richness straining against a doily of strapping
success and a young American fights erection impulses in a vain attempt at
civility, all the while peering at the rocket breasts of Madame Butterfly's
colleague, a woman of 25, inviting face, flimsy buttons, unmarried ass, and
those tectonic bursts of flesh, the young tips targeting inviting grips of Juan
de Fucan proportions. Great lunar
breasts of an uncanny, I tell you, uncanny shape beckoning you back to an age of
rotting vegetation and milkweed vertigo, humans piled to the tiles, tits
sticking out of every pineapple on the block.
Great space-age tits.
Then back to the lipstick drawer. Like
African monkeys with blue penises, no human effort can hide the vulva stuck
smack on the face of every woman walking, self-imitation of the sex organ to
attract comely males, then keep attracting them, breasts imitating buttocks for
the orangutan minds of countless millions.
It's as plain as the nose on your face.
With the clock winding down, green places recede back to an earlier time, a time of stillness and silence before the invention of video tape and styrofoam. Eagles circle looking for bigger game than this a jumping bugger glossed up in orange and banana hues, running straight ahead, face lowered, and headed straight for the greatest hay bale you've ever seen, and he doesn't. Adieu ô hare, and may this not be a lesson for you as now three or even four little Hitlers fight it out until you say "I do." And you did. So, head up, chin out and pull that sullied string out of its crack, little bay, till a little dumptruck comes along and dumps dinosaur doodies on your lawn.
