HUBBY
by Sean KilpatrickJessie paints her nails. The glove box full of shrimp is leaking shrimp rubbing antennae up her cleavage. I'm jealous the radio works now. Jessie blanks her face. She goes a silent ruddy direction I hate.
"We can't drive our knees stuck." Jessie: "I went to sleep in overdrive. Oh my god. I slept through parenthood." "I think I'm driving."
I punch Jessie all day. At some point, she leaves and comes back before my fist connects with her face which is always looking down. We drive to a diner, discuss our relationship and fisting. On the way in the door she keeps walking and I never see her again.
I count tables. Skin on the tables. Dust covered diner. "Tonight," I sing.
A waitress chokes grey water into my drink. I can't tell the rag from her ponytail. It's not my drink. Onions leak off the plate. A burger sits glistening. I lift the bun. A strand of hair is wrapped around the patty. I push the plate away, give the waitress space to move. I ordered hair, but not hers. It feels like weave.
An old man on the stool next to me grinds a cup of mayonnaise around his beard: "Mmmm," moans into the cup, tiny echo: "I'm a lover, not a fighter."
The waitress meets me at the cash register. The patty hangs by her hip, grease circle on her uniform.
"Thanks," I say, just out of nowhere. "Your change," she squats and reaches under her skirt, varicose thighs inching naked. The old man makes a cork pop sound. The waitress rises and extends her tampon by the string. It reeks politely. I handle it like a museum-colored baby. I'm fed eventually by anyone when I go out.
I do a twenty feet high polka. Mosquitoes suck my good ideas. I play the harmonica by accident. I see my girlfriend's house and spit. She becomes pregnant. I give myself a high five. I feel Protestant. I see faster. Horrendously well-lit suburbs approaching.
Jessie's rectal trauma waits on my lawn where I kicked the telephone for sounding like her. I answer individual blades of grass shooting a slow motion slop line from my dangling foreskin toward the bedroom window and I'm carried inside, big DNA footprints.
The people from Jerry Springer left thirty messages. I apply war paint and sit quietly. A panel of the ceiling has collapsed. A dead dog swings out. I have to get all these dead dogs in my house inoculated for fleas.
My sleep is spun by insects. I haven't stopped itching for years. I can see what look like tiny olives next to every vein in my arm.
I remember gagging chandeliers causing my mother to explode looking back and sometimes down. She was having my twin brother when she died. He was me from ten minutes in the future. She was having him standing up and he tunneled out of her with zinc coating.
At the bar, voices chug. More biohazard swirl. Everyone and their dim cigarettes, sick for entertainment. The disease comes in. I come in holding my pants. A girl I know whispers how nothing's in my hand. She purrs a little smoke vagina. I hit her so hard she goes into labor. The umbilical chord is severed with cheap matches.
"It was self-defense," she cries. "Niggers," she cries.
I feel my pubic hairs uproot into a halo. We pour drinks on her baby until it dies. I throw it in the dumpster and make her recite the rosary. She splashes water on her face, the only way she knows how to cry.
"I hear the white trash amen. We are needed elsewhere."
Ride to cocaine with an androgynous person. The dealer looks like PMS in sea sick television light. Indignant whispers rub my brain. I extinguish everyone's cigarette on my palm.
"Someone had their period all over this room."
That which has escaped from a cartoonist's dumpster is throwing knives at my crust. Okay because I left it somewhere punishable. Okay but I tolerate the knives less and less. Tranny uses them as a sort of lullaby to sooth what's left of her cunt after gangbangs.
"We want you, makeshift circumcision! Laugh! Squalid decisions from your gender." Voice like a cream-stuffed robot, malfunctioning jazz voice, chemical fire trumpet, I tend to maim people like this.
They concentrate a dropkick upon my torso. I am lifted into traffic, yelling, "Your heads look bulbous. Not really. I love you. Goodbye forever," pulling someone out through the trunk of their car and switching their jaw around to the back of their head like a wishing well full of blood, my heavy genitals raw with the weight of today and other days that hold them continuously lower.
