I left the room, always in first-person narrative and obsessive-compulsive perfect, books stacked neat, blood spatters facing northeast.
Rearranging everything just right, motel shampoo: label front, just like the Benton soap. Made my thoughts click clack click back. K-chack.
Freeze frame, I heard what sounded like vacuuming, yet the cleaning lady was dead. But, who replaced my soap. Someone watching the room.
Time to bolt, the parakeet molting, open door next door we're at war band the bomb and bang the boom think Kindred think I say out loud.
Something the monkey told him, nights before. The turbines were actually travesty generators, Nixon used a cut-up technique, tricky Dick.
Vampire monkey simply a chimp with rubber teeth, a joke. When I tried to eat him, he squelched like an old bakelite radio circa 1945.
Sack come and. Even I didn't talk like that hen I was off my meds or took too meeny miny mo. My dad had a lover, not my mother, Ft. Bliss.
She left him with old scars for a new job, Wichita. Which was it? No. Nebraska. Offutt Air Force Base, near Omaha. Strategic Air Command.
Where he needed to go, another disciple needed discipline. I-80 straight line, heading west into the black. Bye Dick, enjoy your 'shrooms.
Karin Offal. Looked like Supergirl, if Supergirl was German. Didn't have that Nazi hairdo, smoked like a fiend. And Dad loved her to death.
She looked like Lee Remick. Years later, I saw ANATOMY OF A MURDER. Jimmy Stewart, 1959, small-time lawyer. No Mitchum. Remick black widow.
Not that way with Dad, she loved him back and hard.They shared secrets and dreams where torsos spun and bled across shifting sands. Red ants
or black oil, hard drops of blood on pursed lips in dark dreams on a secret summer night. I watched from the door of our trailer, nervy.
She was on top, her spine creased like a book you read before lights out. One hand drummed against a glass of scotch. Paper clip echoes.
It was the night she left; I watched for hours. I had never seen a woman's breasts before & I had yet to hear the damp voices like tongues.
Dad made sounds I had never heard him make, monkey sounds, oh how they bounced. I did not understand what was happening to me internally.
The cover story, she was going to Huntsville AL with the rest of von Braun's madmen. July 4, 1950, she boarded a Greyhound bus for Omaha.
Dad died nine years later, always had a photo in his wallet, Dad & Karin at the Proving Grounds.Her smile; she could've had a cape & tights.
Trutrh, justice and dear old dad fucking a nazi bitch up the ass three ways to son day. 18 years? She'd be mid-40s. I would strangle her.
Trutrh. Damn, I was hiccupping word thoughts again. I pulled over just past Cedar Rapids to take my meds, sedate my quantum thoughts.
Lucid, like a shot of chloring up my nose, I realized that whenever I typed on the Galaxy Twelve I thought of paper clips dropping on glass.
Damn. CHLORINE, rhymes with Doreen, think spell correct. Memories messing with me bad. I sat near a Sunoco gas pump and wept. No reason.
Hours of flatness later. Tired, not ready to call it off, bam down an off ramp. Burroughs Pop.1977, hit Gysin Street, The Third Mind Motel.
Midday nap. Yawn. No turbines. Proper caps and periods. Maybe it was the smell of corn. Dreamt of the damp trailer filled with Nazi juices.