Sunday, December 27, 2009

Ovalle Coquimbo

‘I will sleep when the sun comes up, not a candle before’ said Dejesus. ‘sleep is for fools, and I I assure you am no fool’. Levering his weight from heel to toe, his eyes wormy with sleep, the Witness teetered on the edge of inconsciência. He held his breath until he turned blue, praying that God would see fit to stop him before he suffocated to death. When God did not intervene he gasped for air like a fish on dry land, the skin on his hands rolling up to the wrists. That night under a glomming yellow moon the Witness made his peace with the animals in the world, freeing them one-by-one from his Christly wrath. ‘dogmen I will never set free… to hell with them all’ he proclaimed to those standing within earshot, a man in goggles bawling at the sickly sweet yellow moon.

Oliana Cataluña bed Bad Clonmel in a one-room walkup rented out to Ovalle Coquimbo, onetime bare-knuckle fighter and acquaintance of Disd Pest, the last remaining whore of the Kalmthout Bordello. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do, that’s all. Something’s are best left unthought-of, bare and easy. God will see fit to think the unthought-of. Laying under a sickly-sweet yellow moon praying that He will stop me before I suffocate myself.
Baying to Ovalle Coquimbo that he’s kept a vacant room open for me. Dejesus slept 2½ hours ensconced in the whitest white linen, awakening well before the snap of dawn. One-by-one he relieved them of his Christly wrath. A helicopter looped overhead buzzing, the pilot hanging his arm out the window. ‘is that you?’ he hollered to Disd Pest, ‘or am I seeing things again?’ When God did not intervene he flew his buzzing copter into the mountainside. Nights like this were all too numerous to remember or place in a spiral-bound notebook. The man in goggles stared directly into the sickly-sweet moon, his eyes popping out of like yolks.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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