Author’s Note: The title is supposed to be “Saturn: A
New Look at an Old Devil”
His amber rings glisten through
the crack in the trapdoor.
Quiet deaths &
sound in our globular
oubliette. Saturn is
he is not mine.
He punishes you by smashing open
& pouring out that bag of powder
the one that you planned
to eat for breakfast.
This inner adult screams
into your virgin ears
that are lining up
the summer snow in
I need this. I need you,
speaks your seductive susurrus
at times held,
behind the lip,
between the gums.
Young folks talking: Who will help us?
During the day they press down bent signs into the earth – made from an image scanned.
Scheming in shades of crimson, clouds and cerulean.
Meanwhile, their nights are paved in absinthe,
sitting around a screen that plays, cuts, and records
the senseless ramblings of those whose
clothes are bathed in glycine detergent:
The zeroes sit on couches, in rows and trap their blankets in airtight hugs. They
live in homes with slipshodden shelves and wallets that mar their owners in doubt. After
a Monday fat with blue, the zeroes unwind by sinking into their uncontrollable bed lust and reciting their credit card numbers as they fuck.
Hope gets them on their feet, out of bed.
This hope sleeps in the tall tales that trail from between the teeth of the demigods.
LIVE: on screen the demigods battle to defend their decrees. “The sour bawling of men shall end/ Chronic bigotry is its own dysentery.”
Observing creatures present and those zeroes, millions of miles away, pine at voluminous promises of protection and grandeur. Each demigod tries to hide their beefy sins by means of other sins, attempting to eclipse eyes from the absences, the stitches, their videos of group masturbation.
The red ones grew up with whitewashed picket fences and the blue ones played in the alleyways with the street kids. Even so, they both hiss and fizz in a mauve amalgam of sordid untruths.
The blue ones try to write down their fictions
but the letters can’t stick,
the red ones’ letters’ sink through the opposite side of the page,
gooey ink sticking onto the cherry finish.
In spite of their differences, the two kinds of demigods both know:
Control was the vision and hubris was the answer.
Use a felt tip pen, she says.
It must be black. Start outlining a
This will be his head.
Blur the lines around his mouth.
Pencil in the ears,
Erase them in an hour.
Make sure to shade the haughty eyes
Blue (Aryan approved).
Make him like Saint Peter, she says.
Crucify him upside down,
His world now inverted.
A family of stick-figured females
Stand behind and watch.
Define the gallows.
Illustrate the secretive face,
Fingernails freshly clipped, and whitening
Eyebrows. Beer belly, large and wide
Yet thin-limbed and well lotioned.
Stencil in catatonic wrinkles
(After they cut out his lying tongue)
For he knows not what he has done.
Man never seems to know what it is that he has done
To deserve such punishment.
Darling, you have always
Been so tired.
Now it’s time to get some rest.
What would your good be doing if there were no evil, and what would the earth look like if shadows disappeared from it? After all, shadows are cast by objects and people. There is the shadow of my sword. But there are also shadows of trees and living creatures.
– Mikail Bulkagov
Standing outside of Ballard Coffee Works, peering through the window, I see her. Gretchen. She sips her coffee that matches the stain of her hair as she scans the room with her scrutinizing eyes. I used to swear there were little red flames in the mahogany irises when she was mad. We have not talked in six months since she told me that I was a psychopath holding her back in life and that she found someone else to love.
I subtract my gaze and multiply my focus onto the world outside, a crow bathing in a concrete puddle. He dips his head downwards then gives his feathers an epileptic shake, allowing the water to trickle. He does this twenty times. I shift my gaze back to her; she is pasted to the book in her hands…The Master and Margarita? That’s definitely my copy: paperback, the corners curled in with reckless care, the frayed edges of the spine. An aqua background highlights the cover art, a dark figure of a cat with a serpent’s tongue, turning his head around while wearing a suit. She is finally reading it eh? Took her long enough. I squint to get a better look at how far she is in the book. Looks like there is about twenty or so pages left. She thinks she wants to be a writer. Ha! She does not read or write nearly half as much as I do. She really lacks taste too, one of those readers that gets off from those overdone modern love stories. I want my book back but confrontation is not my strong suit. Despite my hesitation, I venture inside.
The baby blue walls harmonize a welcome with the cashier’s greeting. I ask the cashier with bubblegum hair for a 12-ounce breve as my hands reach for my pockets. I pull out a dollar seventy-five, shit! She bears a sheepish grin.
“You guys probably don’t take EBT…”
“You know, like food stamps?”
“Oh, no… we don’t.”
I ask her if I can use the bathroom, she nods. I slide away and sit down on a table, on the opposite side of Gretchen’s energy field. At this point, it appears as if she has finished the book, she puts it down. Five minutes later, a man walks in and sits across the table from her.
He is probably about five foot six. Looks like an old pair of sneakers, wrinkles crowd his forehead and acne scars embellish his cheeks. He has this goofy haircut, long on one side short on the other, like a rotated mullet. Looks like a schmuck. He sits opposite from Gretchen and she beams at him while he yaks away. This must be her chosen love. They talk for about twenty minutes and she desperately clings to every utterance escaping his mouth, a familiar sight. He then gets up and leaves. The aftermath of their interaction leaves her in a glowing daydream; she smiles to herself and there are the little flames in her eyes. Disgusting.
She snaps out of her daydream, stands up abruptly and heads towards the bathroom, leaving the book on the table. Meanwhile, I am patiently waiting, calculating my approach. I can slyly walk over and snatch it from the table right now… too late. She returns to her table and for some reason the interior of my mouth now tastes like wine too sweet. As she sits down, I make my way towards her and our eyes finally meet. The little flames fade.
“How are you?” I say, as if guilty of some crime, the crime of spying on her.
“I’m fine… how’re you?”
I take the seat opposite of her and feel a tremendous amount of discomfort, like my nightmares of being held gunpoint down in Mexico City.
“How are you liking the book?”
“I found it absolutely marvelous.”
“Great, that’s wonderful… Can I have it back?”
“But of course that would be the only reason that you would approach me. You want me to give you something, as if the entire world owes you something, doesn’t it? Because of your mother’s death. Well it doesn’t. I gave you everything; I cooked for you, cleaned for your sorry ass, helped you in school, and all I got in return was glib phrases of love and rough sex. Goodbye, Jasper. See you in hell.”
She whirlwinds herself right out the door. I decide to walk to the nearest bookstore and see if they have any pocket-sized copies I can get for a five-fingered discount.
You lay there next to me,
You look like a worn pairs of sneakers,
All creases and scars.
I grab your hands and observe the square digits
The unusual reduced length of your index finger.
Your pupils so deep
I could almost fall into them.
In a panic, I choose not to.
Your square jaw,
So sharp it could slice me in half.
The sidelong glance you give me
Reveals the side of your shaved head
Now outgrowing itself.
Hair combed over the other side,
Your roots hidden.
You turn to lie on your stomach,
I stare at the isolated hair on your lower back,
And admire your creator’s detailing
Of your mole-flecked skin.
Your smooth voice rolls across the bed
A slight hoarseness
Like rocks on a river.
Of worldly concern tremble
Between your lips
Trailing behind the occasional
Quiet chuckles that
Fall like dewdrops.
You usually smell like alcohol,
The whiskey sits on your breath
Like an anxious wedding guest
Searching for someone to talk to, a familiar face.
Your clothes sometimes smelling musty
Like the dust fanned
All over your shared bathroom.
A whiff of your hair
Some commercial fruity shampoo,
Its saccharine chemicals
Filling in my nostrils.
Your skin wafts
Of the clean lines of
Warm little fires
Your touch feels like a child
In need of sympathy
Hair as soft as
The undercoat of your friend’s kitten
That you take care of.
Thin limbs, death-gripped.
You taste like fresh linens
And a fruity cocktail of
With an aftertaste
Of a frightened whisper.