It’s always in the shower where I stand and wait and think. Listening to the beat of the marble beads falling at my feet. I drink wine, sometimes, wasting away. Hoping for some better times, maybe a better day.
But, there ain’t much to be had in a small town like this one. It’s a place to sit and stare and never wonder bare or outward. Out here in the tomes of old, where the purple desert grass sways and the flowers look like yellow grapes on stalks of century plants hung among the other red dotting fins of lithe creatures that mope across this plane of mine, never dropping a dime from their tattered and holey wears – for this is a place of wonderment and money isn’t always necessary, but when it is, no one is tossing it aside recklessly like they would their own bodies – money in this realm is worth its weight in human sweat and therefore given a higher standard than life.
[…]
It rains down on me. And I feel it. Feels like needles and knives sometimes, and soothing orgasms, wet soft hands of a nymph others. In this place nothing creeps along the vines in my mind, and I meditate, like a monk in the Andes seeing God in motion, set apart in Energy, but I’m in a plastic shower stall in the old new west, paralytic in the mists of whirling modernity. I cannot even fathom the grandiose outside where they live in the pockets of the world. Cities. Growing and scandalous.
And I don’t think anyone knows where to go in a time like this. You can’t even escape this madness in the sticks, off the paved road. It’s supposed to be calm here, but this is where homo-suicidal maniacs are born, built in factory houses by heaving women doped up on speed and sperm. Breading like machines.
All can be had in this vast sandy island bigger than a continent, fashioned for the liking of such wondrous tikes as Doctor Moreau and the Marquis de Sade. In this place touched by God all is in vein and the worrisome madness is intensifying under the dark clouds and pounding rain.
[...]
I wrote a book in here once. In the shower. It was a short book in my head, one that I could tell you in a short hour; but it crept to life over the course of twenty-three tireless, sleepless, caffeine and cocaine fueled days – “The man never left a hour loosened,” a friend said to another in that time alone, in seclusion, and… I don’t think I came out of the darkness, the brooding gloom of my own Heart of Darkness.
This is for sickening men.
[…]
I let the water hit my face with the tinge I recognize as the abrasive overload of iron-oxide seeping up from the ground into my well through four inch pipes and into the steel water tank and then pumped at eighty-five psi into my house and through my shower head and onto my head and matted down brown hair and it stings my body and dries me out and I have to use a soft lotion of aloe to better articulate skin over muscle, so the thin cotton skin doesn’t crack and burn under my shirt which sticks, like hot leather in the summer, to my body.
Everything here is laced in chemical deposits, both natural and synthesized. Cardboard stiff.
[…]
Down the road there is a tired hidden park of trailers owned by a couple with wrinkles deep and calloused. The homes are new but the people are old and haggard, meth twisted, running lips torn down by fatigue and sun, and their clothes bore the marks of their lives, like scars mark wounds. There are Mexicans there and often enough they fight with the white boys in the park. The Sheriffs called often. And he gets a lot of collars. And he likes that - good for reelection. There is incest in the park, infidelity, adultery, drug addiction, and open drunkenness; wild packs of pit-bulls maul cats as rampant displays of lewdness pervade the loathsome community of toothless freaks.
Last week a tormented housewife cut her husband’s dick off at the balls and fed it to his dog while he howled and watched it all disappear, hog-tied on the floor. She fed pieces of him to his dog for six days before he died.
It was frantic despair driving all that happened there. Like wind moves a fan.
Other things happen there too.
Go there and watch and it’s the poor guttural orgy that is both pathetic and sick that you will see ad infinitum. But it is a twisted custom there, and people don’t speak about the atrocities except in the proper circles, because when things get out it isn’t pretty. Blood is always let invariably and the product is maimed bodies, lopped limbs, screams, and death in the night…
“They have their own Jerry Springer Show going on down there,” Zach said, on our way to work. There were mountains all around us, full of flowers. There had just been a snow a few days ago, but it was the end of April and the sun was a full bright orb of Energy in the sky. Now it was gone. And all that was left were flowers. Brilliant desert flowers. The valleys, normally dry were full of wild colors passing around, changing daily, redirecting with the sun, moving in their constant motioned beauty, parading out into the lands that I cannot yet reach. They bound beyond all boundary or fence, like a dream of Einstein.
That’s how it is here. Limitless.
[…]
The white plastic stall encrusted in the red muddy color of iron. The old door no longer transparent. And. When the water cools, there isn’t anything to meditate over – I turn the water all the way over. It comes straight from the earth, unheated, untouched, and batters my searing, steaming body, everything shrinks up, except the balls, which hang low, one lower than the other.
[…]
And I think, “Is there anything more?”
But there isn’t and it’s back to the lathe.
By: Dillon Mullenix
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