Very Real. Woke up in a parallel universe
where I still lived in Charlotte,
in the farm and I owned the house.
I had a roommate, a bearded redhead kid
maybe Greg or John Ellis grown up.
I came home after a long business trip
and was planning on working on the house
but a bunch of super hot Euro kids showed up on mass.
It turns out Greg had been letting them squat
because they let him in on the orgies.
The front door was a wall of futuristic tinted, sliding doors.
My grandfather clock was there.
The first euro kid had dreads and was airboxing
when I saw him at the door.
I managed to kick the first group out
but they overwhelmed and the girls were grouping me.
I have two little black cobras
that sleep in my bed.
They won’t strike me, they say.
They’re here to help, they say.
They just want to sleep tomorrow, tonight, and today.
When people say there are events in calenders
they forget that the meteor strikes that the fused the dinosaurs
into the apes and then back again in reverse pull
were time shifting like liquid. Shifting like a baby in a womb,
waking from a wonderful dream into the darkness of fluid.
Then the baby reaches full term, waterslides out, and they can swim but they
because we are amphibians. We don’t know what do with land.
You know what we do with land? We fucking come up with calenders
made of laminated dead trees with pictures of dogs in fireman hats,
and then are impressed when every so often the calenders have silly numbers
match up with silly words that we came up with using our diminishing brains.
Sometimes when you realize how perfect the time whirl pool is, you just tip
back your head and laugh at the early morning sky.
He came up and asked me for a smoke.
Out on the monument while the stars or satellites or whatever
blossomed out of the dark in to gray line embers at the end of cigarettes.
He said drink this. I drank it but not because he told me too. I drank it because I was tired of my own brain. Then he said come back to my house to get high. To smoke. To snort. To fuck his older sister while he played with her son.
He said it from the other side of the street with a voice that shakes you awake just as you fall asleep. Ever feel like your stumbling in bed he says as he lights his smoke and grins. He smells like gasoline and pine. His voice is in the train rumbling. I can barely hear him now.
Lore from Normal Ave
Bill Zenith sat on the curb in the last gasps of the twentieth century wearing a silverchair t-shirt. His hair was long but shaved underneath. His leather jacket had belonged to his father, the one who had been a founding cast member of the international terror show Blackwater. At some point someone transferred six million dollars into Bill’s bank account and then he got a letter saying that his father was dead somewhere in Somalia. Bill started smoking that day, it was also the day Chris Farley died, it was also the first day that Bill ever saw someone wear JNCO jeans. He watched a white kid with dreads strut on the other side of Milwaukee Ave, in broad daylight no less, wearing only what appeared to be an amish skirt made of denim split in two and a wife-beater. A toothless old homeless lady, looked at the kid like he was an alien and her unlit half cigarette fell out of her mouth.
Bill looked at his busted old Levi’s torn at the knees and crotch. Thought about the coming fashion, and laughed to himself. Bill went back to his Ravenswood Academy, his boarding school in Bucktown, which he had escaped from that day, but no one had noticed. Becca Kimberly was waiting for him. She said hello and she said cigarette and lips and jokes and smile and girl smells and thighs and feathers in her raven hair and why don’t we slip away and yes and yes and yes of course. So Bill went with her down the block of Normal Ave where she lived. She asked Bill if he could tell which one was her house without ever having been there. It only took Bill a moment to reach out and to hear the decrepit old red brick row house mansion of sorts coo at him like a nuzzling owl.
Bill pointed and she kissed him. He followed behind mostly trying hard not to stare at her ass but he did anyway. The house instantly swallowed Bill. It was a house for Rockefeller if he was secretly Dracula. A house that dripped in wealth and archaic Victorian taste. How? How in the fuck? Bill asked with his mouth constantly open. The Kimberlys are a very old family she said, very very old. We’ve lived on this block before it was Chicago. How can that be Bill asked? But Rebecca was already up the stairs, laughing and sprinting.
Bill caught up to her in a room he assumed to be her bedroom but none of the furniture was from this century. How could a seventeen year old girl live without a cd player he thought, but she was already against him, her warmth slithering itself inside of him as the wetness of her kiss soldered him into her. She wanted to show him something, something wonderful something that would cheer him from his father. Something that would be the start of a whole new life.
She took him to the attic. A place of creaking floor boards, feathers, dust, and a single massive armoir. The armoire had extention cords running from. An electric armoire? what in the fuck Bill wheeled but Becca was not alone now. Ten figures in black robes stood with her.
One asked Becca if “Bill was any good?”
Becca said “he’s the best I’ve ever seen”.
She took the dagger from her belt and drove it into Bill’s stomach. “You dick” was the best Bill had to rebuttal. They descended on him; some for his arms, some for his legs one for his hair, all holding him to the face the armoire which now was beginning to laugh in hideous tones behind the rattling door. Becca took his blood smeared it over his lips and drove her kiss into him like a stake. Then she held his face to the armoire, opened the lock letting blue light poured for its doors, and Bill’s beautiful auburn hair went snow white as his future exploded from a piece of antique furniture.