They Had Goat Heads

BENEATH A PINK SUN





Conflict is an illusion without which apes and begonias would shrivel in the wind. The grill, however, is covered with steaks. Tenderloins. They sizzle in the back yard beneath a pink sun. Somebody turns on a bugzapper. Music of tiny deaths. Overweight neighbors in beetle suits scuttle up tree trunks and attack flying squirrels. One should not do battle with arboreal gliders, theoretical or otherwise (ref. Deleuze & Guattari’s Anti-Oedipus), no matter what they’re wearing. Particularly if they lack Just Cause. I can already hear the gavel slamming against the anvil. Blacksmiths line up in the streets and sharpen meat cleavers with power tools. A steel gray Camaro runs them over. Bones crunch. The blacksmiths rise to their knees. An out-of-control stagecoach runs them over. Pastiche of viscera. They stay down for the count as the stagecoach metamorphoses into a giant pumpkin. Remember that old Greco-Egyptian fairy tale of unwarranted oppression and triumphant reward (ref. Wikipedia)? Cinderella a.k.a. Rhodopsis was born without a hard palate. She had to install a ribbed prosthesis. She ran her tongue across the prosthesis during moments of ontological skepticism. And yet soldiers rarely strangle each other in the heat of combat. At the same time, keys don’t always work. Stick it in a keyhole, turn it . . . and it doesn’t turn. And you’re using the right key. You’re sure of it. Inebriation. Hallucination. Micturation. You make a decision to get your back rubbed. Chiropractors invade the Temple of Diegesis and begin cracking the congregation’s collective neck. The congregation begs the doctors to stop, but secretly they feel better, fresher. They’re thankful for being violated. Near the restrooms, a contortionist juggles minute koalas while dishing out smoked sausages for $3 a pop. Takers are legion, and they’re not unhappy with the taste, given the proper medley of condiments. Dip a French fry in ketchup and pretend it’s a flaming match. Eat the fire. Ceiling fans have the capacity to burn down the house if you install a flamethrower in the rafters. Acme is the best brand. “I’m extremely happy with this fine product,” says a craggy Vietnam veteran and disappears into the jungle depths. Suh-suh-Saigon. Fishermen infiltrate the motels and scale perch in the shower stalls. The manager tells them not to do it, but they do it anyway. Pack of solipsists. They light candles in the hallways, apply blindfolds, strip naked and do fifty yard dashes, trampling old folks who wander into the hallways to get buckets of ice. A blacklight implodes. The baby can’t be soothed. It cries and cries and dares somebody to console it. A passenger plane crashes into the apartment complex down the block. Impossible cinematic explosions and carnage. Top notch special effekts. A daikaiju (trans. giant monster, e.g., Godzilla) emerges from the electrically charged wreckage and storms up and down the streets of Winesburg. Policemen attack it with harpoons. Ahab impersonators seek pan-seared vengeance. They man the decks of vintage zeppelins. Surprise gust of wind. Queequeg slips and topples over the edge at an altitude of 500 feet. Thud. A bright yellow daisy crawls out of the dirt like an undead corpse (ref. White Zombie). A fasttime weed overtakes the daisy like a boa on a flagpole (ref. Anaconda, particularly when the great snake vomits a partially digested Paraguayan Jon Voight and Voight winks at Jennifer Lopez and Ice-Cube before dying). The flag comes loose and sails to the horizon like a magic carpet (ref. One Thousand and One Nights). Intellect of human viscera. Animé nights and scikungfi battle royals. People paint themselves purple and pretend they’re cats. They meow. They drink milk from bowls. They imagine the sensation of possessing an elongated coccyx. Meanwhile the pod door opens and accommodates a heart, pulsing, spitting blood as it floats across the cockpit. “Is it a coincidence?” says Captain Klondike to an off duty space cadet. “Who tears out somebody’s heart and throws it into the cosmos?” The space cadet shrugs. The captain fingers his chin. Formica is better than carpet tile, he thinks. Especially in kitchens. If you’re going to carpet a kitchen floor, you might as well carpet the stove and the refrigerator, too. And the coffee maker. Got it from Sharper Image. Flavia Fusion J10N. Stainless steel with amazing push-button speed. The payroll clerk assured me that I could purchase this at-home brewing system. I do what the payroll clerk assures me to do. The others lack credibility and élan. That includes fontmakers, of course. All day long they loaf and invite their souls, dreaming up new brands of letters, numbers, symbols. That’s no way to spend one’s time. Time is precious. Time is the splash of a raindrop on a cornflake.