Spending four hours in the worst hospital in the world wondering whether your baby is dead can make a libertarian socialist sober. There is a yellow bird that lives or visits the palm frond outside the laundry room, frolicking unaware that my wife bled from her vagina. The beautiful gynecologist is on vacation, semana santa, so she gives instructions to señorita, Costco loaded with people, cajeras cannot even read her brother’s card with their decrepit pharmacy scanner; security guards at Walmart confront me as I attempt to reenter as if there was a suicide bomb strapped to my chest; what the hell is wrong with this world?
I can hear it chirping, the final countdown: our family or my madness; which will last longer? Wish I could tell the bird that you’re okay, but not so sure anymore, we need a miracle and I’m running out of time and need to go wash some dirty panties now, so sleep baby, Mommy will take care of you, Daddy cries alone and wonders how to pay the rent in three days; libertarian socialism is sometimes not all it’s cracked up to be; hopefully there will be more than a box of baking soda in the refrigerator.
Eggs in the incubator, winged omen my only savior, the moment has arrived, time to pile those clothes into soapy water and hope for the best, farewell bird. But the raven returns when I lay my head down. The monster in the closet was always in my mind.
I'm getting two more days of Dexabion ampulas injections in the ass by Mexican nurses. It feels magic; a shake of the head, wink of the eye, an intense euphoric pinprick, intravenous with my name on it, almost as good as showing the urologist my penis a few years earlier for the ultrasound, but that is a different story, one of youth and testicular pain, nothing serious, nothing like dying.
Where can you find the answers after you make love with a ghost for the second time in an hour? Is it an endless phantom of an ethereal tantrum, a wave of quivering toes you suck the moonlight dry with lemon drops on majestic eyelashes? There’s marmalade in your panties and blood in her veins; let the dead rabbit die in its cage and rot in the Tucson dumpster because you were too poor to feed it; cocaine comes first; food is for the weak.
Fifteen years collide into one. Fuck the mermaids ripping holes in your brain, the obstinate worms eating away at your abdomen, that dusty karma bunny underneath your pillow when you dream of dying? Are the mosquitoes making love to your face or only your limbs because they don’t eat wrinkles and you’ve put on weight? Have all your dreams of flying been replaced with falling?
Before the bird there was a prison cell. Lived with strangers but became something more over the course of nine months, residing in numerous one bathroom apartments, diminutive spaces too tiny to conduct business with dignity, silence an illusion, but finally, after infinite struggle and strife, made it penniless to the top: the penthouse, where the expatriate degenerate beneath us rented the condo after his wife kicked him out when the bastard fucked a table dancer, so she kept the house, until he bought her a new one--but that’s not what this story is about.
It’s about that crazy night the son-of-a-bitch went ballistic at 3:33 in the morning; his conniption broke down the door, but it all started so innocuous ...
Dead of night I crept up the cold marble steps. Beneath us: the real estate mogul with all the money in the world, the contemporary Tom Buchanan. He is the Gringo who comes down to Mexico seeking adventure, fucks the beauties and the whores, gets the wife pregnant, builds a family and then destroys the house. So now he lives beneath us, bitching in his fortress, listening to his farts light up the night, pyrotechnics of the soul.
Dropped the contact lens lid on the floor (seemingly innocuous error) nothing much, nothing more, but the echoes in the dead of night were too heavy ... I reached down to pick it up, pull out my prescription as the door banged, again, bang, bang, minutes of banging, belligerent asshole breaking his own door.
A few days later he removed the plastic garbage bag: a new door was installed, painted almost perfect, but I can still see those smears in the paint where something just isn’t right, where a man fucks a whore and leaves his wife and then he meets us one day when my lady makes me ascertain her lack of strength and inability to climb the mountains behind the houses, but that doesn’t matter either--for all that does is the day he leaves--but before that the daughter knows my wife by name.
She is friends with the cuckolded bride, but the whore parks her car next to mine. Thankfully enough space on my side, but she opens her backdoor all the way, shoving suitcases within cramped compartment, scratches the paint on the neighbor’s baby, doesn’t even notice, or care, it drives me crazy as I spy out the window…doors transform into wings, her luggage and all orifices open as wide as possible, clearly against the polished blue of the fine automobile beside her--and hers rented so it doesn´t matter to them; they break doors for fun, throw money in the air and stuff it into G-strings, but I care not--penniless and quiet as possible I listen to the yellow bird, watch vaginal blood turn into wine. It’s always better to be on top; even a stripper knows that.
published 9 July 2011