A little red pill sends thick drug commands to lodge in my fore-
arms, the street-pressed PCP we came by dishonestly first blowing up
on me while I’m out walking . . .
And my arms have thought waves coming off them, my pelvis
in forward tilt wound by cables of force proper that hold me in a new
place where I fit snugly: the whole universe. Look at these new greens
of spring under the streetlights!
We took in a couple of midnight shows, werewolf movies of the
time, thusly bent, my friend’s voice booming in the darkened theater, “I
SUGGEST YOU TAKE THIS OTHER HALF,” as he drops something small
into my upraised palm—why, it’s a little pill, a half-pill, a pill part. I should
do as instructed.
These movies are dull stuff, nothing happening on the screen, tiny
like television, but the theater bathroom is huge, irresistibly yellow, the
urinals something from the future, the future of urination to enjoy now,
really let go! Future now, then slowly, look how slowly I am walking.
The film ends? We attempt to leave, but a very big dog is circling
our Beetle in the parking lot, the only car left, the dog is as big as the car
itself and we cannot approach the car because we’re very high and afraid
the animal is some were-beast loosed from the film, come to kill us
for guzzling beer smuggled into the theater, for dropping street-
pressed shit, for leading dissolute lives, for not paying attention to The
Howling right in front of us, or American Werewolf in London.
I got lost in the endless yellow bathroom, I was flat up against the
pons asinorum of my hypertrophic love, aroar atilt and aclutter, I plead
the discombobulation endemic to daily minor turpitude, I haven’t eaten
anything since yesterday, we weren’t trying to ignore you.