porch overlooking the cotton when two Canadians land a balloon in the field. They have champagne. We toast that they are still alive after their rough landing. We toast that you are Eli and I am Maloney. We toast that everyone alive is still alive.
St. Sebastian is tied to a tree and archers shoot him full of arrows. He is buried, rises from the dead, heals a woman. Then is beaten to death by an emperor and left in a ditch.
Pretty good story if it were true, you say, Eli.
There’s no truth anymore, I say. The truth died in 1865.
Darling pours me black coffee at the Starlight. She thinks I should spend more time on the water. That is where I am happy.
Have you ever been to Greenwich Village, she says. That’s where all the poets lived.
Once. Long ago, I say. Before the Lord got me.
Eli, I want to sail around the horns and never quite arrive at a final destination. We can visit islands so remote they don’t have names. Live among natives. Yet as we age the possibilities grow less endless. The windows of opportunity don’t slam, they shut quietly in the dark. We’re always another cup of coffee away from the end. I’ll be damned if my adventures are spent sitting in this boat. We are out floating in space, the earth our ship. Riding round the big star. There is too much chattering about the end and not enough shutting up about the now. Out on the sea, Eli, me and you and the ones we love. We could leave the harbor with a little push.
Eli, we snort heroin and go to the bookstore. You ask for art books. I want abstract art, you say. I only like art that is abstract. I give you a book. Is this art, you ask. I don’t know, I say. This is fantastic, you say. This is fantastic! I show you another book and you ask, Is
this
art? And I say, I don’t know. And you say, This is fantastic! The girl at the counter (the one with nice breasts) says, You might like Dalí. Dalí was a pornographer, you say and throw the book in her face. On the ride home you say sometimes I remind you of a panther.
Tuesday overdosed during the fifth encore of the Red Rocks show. I pick her up at the airport and she looks clear after her hospital stay. The wizards are at the back of the cotton field throwing the football. The Rebels lose to Bama.
Eli, can you clear the hospital room? Boom and I need to speak.
What do you want done in your absence, I ask him.
I want you to take my saddle off the wall and strap my bones to my pony and set her free, Boom says.
OK.
I was happy in my life, he says, there was a lot of pain but I enjoyed that, too.
I know, I say.
There are reports of Satan in the physical world, Eli. A cub scout saw eerie boot prints near the roller skating rink.
Was there a smell of patchouli and blood, I ask the scout.
It was exactly that odor, sir.
Never cross your heart and hope to die, I say. Always step on a crack. You can never break your mother’s back.
I carry this here pink foot of a rabbit for luck and good graces, he says.
I give him fifty bucks and send him on his way.
Eli, Nono found your bike in a ditch.
She’s a very sexy woman, you say.
She’s sixty-five years old, I say.
She’s an artist, you say.
Are you sleeping with her?
Maybe I am and maybe I am.
St. Juan is scourged and pressed to death with weights. His brothers, Felix and Philip, are beheaded. Their mother, too, with the same sword.
Boom dies on a Friday, like Christ. We send him off in the following way: I hire the Confederate drummer boy from the local Civil War reenactors group, he plays light taps throughout. I give a reading from the Holy Bible. Valley of the shadow, etc. We strap Boom to the pony. I give the Eucharist. Weed brownies as the body, moonshine as the blood. I shoot a pearlhandled pistol in the air. Eli, you slap the pony and it runs toward the moon.
3
The fair comes to town with its psychedelic lights and expensive corn dogs. Dick Dickerson, the mayor, is a bald man who owns a pawnshop. He’s a loudmouth in love with
St. Sebastian is tied to a tree and archers shoot him full of arrows. He is buried, rises from the dead, heals a woman. Then is beaten to death by an emperor and left in a ditch.
Pretty good story if it were true, you say, Eli.
There’s no truth anymore, I say. The truth died in 1865.
Darling pours me black coffee at the Starlight. She thinks I should spend more time on the water. That is where I am happy.
Have you ever been to Greenwich Village, she says. That’s where all the poets lived.
Once. Long ago, I say. Before the Lord got me.
Eli, I want to sail around the horns and never quite arrive at a final destination. We can visit islands so remote they don’t have names. Live among natives. Yet as we age the possibilities grow less endless. The windows of opportunity don’t slam, they shut quietly in the dark. We’re always another cup of coffee away from the end. I’ll be damned if my adventures are spent sitting in this boat. We are out floating in space, the earth our ship. Riding round the big star. There is too much chattering about the end and not enough shutting up about the now. Out on the sea, Eli, me and you and the ones we love. We could leave the harbor with a little push.
Eli, we snort heroin and go to the bookstore. You ask for art books. I want abstract art, you say. I only like art that is abstract. I give you a book. Is this art, you ask. I don’t know, I say. This is fantastic, you say. This is fantastic! I show you another book and you ask, Is
this
art? And I say, I don’t know. And you say, This is fantastic! The girl at the counter (the one with nice breasts) says, You might like Dalí. Dalí was a pornographer, you say and throw the book in her face. On the ride home you say sometimes I remind you of a panther.
Tuesday overdosed during the fifth encore of the Red Rocks show. I pick her up at the airport and she looks clear after her hospital stay. The wizards are at the back of the cotton field throwing the football. The Rebels lose to Bama.
Eli, can you clear the hospital room? Boom and I need to speak.
What do you want done in your absence, I ask him.
I want you to take my saddle off the wall and strap my bones to my pony and set her free, Boom says.
OK.
I was happy in my life, he says, there was a lot of pain but I enjoyed that, too.
I know, I say.
There are reports of Satan in the physical world, Eli. A cub scout saw eerie boot prints near the roller skating rink.
Was there a smell of patchouli and blood, I ask the scout.
It was exactly that odor, sir.
Never cross your heart and hope to die, I say. Always step on a crack. You can never break your mother’s back.
I carry this here pink foot of a rabbit for luck and good graces, he says.
I give him fifty bucks and send him on his way.
Eli, Nono found your bike in a ditch.
She’s a very sexy woman, you say.
She’s sixty-five years old, I say.
She’s an artist, you say.
Are you sleeping with her?
Maybe I am and maybe I am.
St. Juan is scourged and pressed to death with weights. His brothers, Felix and Philip, are beheaded. Their mother, too, with the same sword.
Boom dies on a Friday, like Christ. We send him off in the following way: I hire the Confederate drummer boy from the local Civil War reenactors group, he plays light taps throughout. I give a reading from the Holy Bible. Valley of the shadow, etc. We strap Boom to the pony. I give the Eucharist. Weed brownies as the body, moonshine as the blood. I shoot a pearlhandled pistol in the air. Eli, you slap the pony and it runs toward the moon.
3
The fair comes to town with its psychedelic lights and expensive corn dogs. Dick Dickerson, the mayor, is a bald man who owns a pawnshop. He’s a loudmouth in love with
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