Willie Smith


                In a downtown canyon, walk along, watching on my phone Christie Canyon blow thirty years ago some stud. A gust funnels up Union, blows my hat off. Chase after same. The phone ringtones: IN A CAVERN, IN A CANYON, EXCAVA-A-ATING FOR A MINE!
                The hat settles in the gutter. I, hurrying up to the soggy touchdown, answer.
                “Hi, sucker – this is Christie; teach you ogle my boobs!”
                I bend over to retrieve my lid. From a ledge high above, a pigeon on the crown craps. White shit spatters my upper lip.
                “Bad day, Numbnuts. Better roll the dice again!”
                Terminate call. Wipe with the brim the shit off my lip. Don the soaked fedora. Take the Canyon’s advice. Surf to a vid explaining the Dyson Sphere. Best humanity can hope for is suck every last drop of juice out of the sun. So everyone at cool vid’s can stare. Then at night crap out to superpositional muzak. Screw that crap.
                Flip back to vintage porn, halting at a light. Wait, eyeing Ms. Canyon spread before the lens her canyon. French-manicured fingers pry apart the labia. The pelvis adjusts to aim the meatus at my face. The pink orifice noticeably relaxes.
                Hear the WALK beep-beep maybe composed by Erik Satie on life support. Step – piss splashing the screen inches from my eyes – off the curb to cross Pine, when a wine truck, taking a free right, takes me down under, robs me of my life (hardly mine to begin with), while across the canyon the phone smartly skitters.


                Out of the closet clatter skeletons. Pick one looks about my size: Hate Dad. Bastard juiced me into this world. Without Dad Mom would’ve just jerked her life off; or used some other jerk to create some different jerk; left me a sentence unserved in a pulp unwrit.
                Slip into the bone suit. Jitter about the room.
                Dad demands order here – hear? Fine – confine myself to the rug. See the mirror better that way anyway.
                “Thank God,” my skull grins at the rib cage, in which a heart I might be having thumps, “for Dad!”
                I was down in the dumps, till anatomy danced me out through the seams. See me quicken leaps, do-si-dos, pirouettes, knee slaps; till eyeholes let on the other skeletons – flopped on the floor – brood and pout, upset at left out.
                “What are you doing up there!” screams Mom downstairs.
                “Staring down a pack of ungrateful dead!” I have a mind to scream back; but bite my tongue – Mom dead all these years; Dad, too.
                Crank the tempo. Elevate foot thunder. Dawns on me my duty today, as a good son, to wake the dead.
                Soon – a skosh longer than Oklahoma – up springs a floppy; sets to jittering. Hard at first to read the tag pinned mid-sternum. But sooner, despite flutters, decipher: “Fuckbooks.” Almost as long as Hate Dad, Fuckbooks jammed in the closet.
                Curve an arm around the pelvis. My tornado twist enough to resonate Fuckbooks to her tarsals; but she needs help keeping erect; wax myself kinda dizzy. Our frenzy downsizes to a mazurka.
                “Stay on the rug,” I whisper in her earhole. “Otherwise Dad fears the wax’ll get scuffed.”
                Hold my partner close, as she unfolds into me her center. Sport inside my suit a little wood. Hollywood loaf against her pubic symphysis. Buttering slices of thought. Keeping time to motes in the sunshine kaleidoscope Strauss.
                She hums in my own ear. In reality – as her maxillary in the mirror shows – a mere ho-hum. But my humps hope for a vibrato squeal. Tell myself she digs my moves. When all anybody really digs’s my grave.
                Off course the loaf – through two layers of lycra – rams an obturator canal. Wedge my tongue between teeth. Whores don’t, of course; but who says rapists don’t kiss?
                In the rear of a gondola, in some Venice of the mind, I slick ink dust lick. Tang of the soil; bonemeal finish. Ah, Fuckbooks – if it ain’t sick, it ain’t thus. Since this is us in Venice – call that turd floating over there to starboard Dennis (hey, turds are human, too!) – won’t you come with me for a little death?
                She bites off my tongue. Gulps the wagger. I recoil. Magnetic-Resonance-Image the bleeding polyp marimba ribs. Bounce off ileac crests. Plop into her pelvic basin. In my face she curses. Without a tongue I’m mum as Mom, dumb as Dad. The remaining skeletons to her defense leap.
                No Talent snares my throat. Throttles me – sneering – purple. God Is Dead claps me in a crossface. All the frogs I eviscerated on the lawn that night I hated having to wake up at six to start kindergarten burst into applause. Kick my nuts. I scream like crazy, to avoid going nuts.
                The landlady and the cop her son kick down the door. Up off the bloody rug I jump. Hand, out of breath, over the rent. Cash.
                She looks around at everything smashed. I wish I, back into the dumps slumping, was.


                Sit on the train training myself to believe the train sits still, while backwards runs the world. Concentrate on motionlessness, rails clacking past under my two solid feet.
                At length get up. Walk back to the can. To release what I can no longer hold.
                Bump into a lesbian training herself to go straight, people from her church encouraging her all the way. She beams into my eyes – would I like to go all the way? I shrug. She pats me on the can. Slobbers syllables in my ear. We decide to make it two in the can.
                We slip in. Lock the door.
                First I take a stinky shit. She rolls eyes at the ceiling. Mumbles this a test from the Lord. I wipe. Flush. Stand. Leave pants rolled around ankles. The quicker to get down to business.
                She kicks off shoes. Leaps out of her jump suit – underwearless as a werewolf in the wild. At sight of which nudity herby to attention springs.
                Grab her by the temples. Attempt to force her to kneel – to profane her throat with my wood.
                She breaks the hold. Pins me to the tile; on the way down explaining oral ain’t her style. Besides – egg in the basket. She needs to sow seed. Grow gravid like any other godfearin gal. Make the Lord in His old age happy.
                The inverted piledriver of her groin slams mine silly. I train my eyes on the ceiling rocking back and forth in reaction to the landscape between towns picking up speed.
                Realize once I pop, I’ll be a pop. Hold back long as I can – father for this neighbor no acceptable hood.
                Suppose the wild-oat grows up to hunt me down? I’m kidding – this a fantasy got out of hand, homunculus in the masturbatory lab run amok. I could never be a father; hold a job, change diapers, shop for trainer wheels, trainer bras, pay for college; train myself to believe it’s all all along just the train moving.
                But pop I do. Cock-a-doodle-doo! Two thousand milliseconds of shearing birth off death clean as a cracker on a whip. Slave to whoopee, coming on the underground rail back to master.
                She slaps my face. “That…” dismounts... “oughta do the trick!”
                She jumps back into her suit. Leaps into loafers. Pats me farewell on the can, as I’m climbing to my feet, rustling pants above the knees.
                She shoulders open the flimsy door. Turns a moment in the frame to say, “Ride this train nineteen years from today – I’ll show you to the kid. Just don’t try anything, OK?”
                I shrug the jeans up the rest of the way. Cock head, arch eyebrows, twist lips – to convey no problem.
                Resolve never again as long as I exist to get on this train.
                Resituate self back at seat. Watch the landscape rush. Numb as to whether train or earth or both move.
                Roll eyes up at the sky… twilight gathering. Start, with a start, to train myself to believe space moves, the galaxy swirls, the cosmos jumps.
                Once again commence to play with myself.
                By the time I reach my berth on the far side, herby will be bloody beat. But maybe some creature of fancy will ingest our jest to gestate something to carry on beyond the carrion.
                The world beyond the window dims. Galaxies spin, quarks cluster, strings knot, universes do-si-do. The cosmos vaults into the flower of God’s bed. As death must come in spring.

Willie Smith videos can be found at YouTube
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