Today I feel lethal, a scoch unstable, my thoughts chafed into pulverulence, wildness behind these eyes. Don’t look at me. Don’t talk to me. Cold bruised memories trickling inlets; raven shadows in the corner of my stare. I turn to look and it is gone. Something is coming. Something wants to be with me. To teach me things.
Crisped flesh wrapped tight my sun-raped skull, varnished in hot nasty sweat butter—pore sparged glaze but no protection from unceasing solar broil. My hunger unendurable yet the flavor of my own seared skin persuaded salival secretions, my stomach snarling for meat. Mere filaments of memory stretched and popped, shitting storms of misery across the windshield of my mind. Hordes of stone-black vultures circled above crying symphonies of sacrificial shrill. Praying for my death. Begging for pain. Dying for administration.
I’m standing at the counter in McDonalds first in line with eight people behind me; two elderly couples wreaking of cancer, a cop and three girls in their early twenties. A young black kid with work cap twisted gangster style atop his Wesley Snipes haircut ala New Jack City says, “Yo . . . I’m Reginald, may I take your order?”
I’m near eruption, an explosion of violence but I don’t know why. I turn nonchalantly to see the cop; where his attention is focused—and his gun, a 17 round Glock 9mm. He was uneasy; in a hurry probably wanting to sit down and stuff his mammoth gut with quarter-pounders, apple pies and chocolate shakes. I imagined his heart constricting in knotted twitch, falling to the floor dead as pork chop.
The cop says, “Please hurry up mister, some of us have jobs.”
“Alright G-Money, I’ll have nine quarter-pounders. On the first one, I want you to divide the top bun in half, mayonnaise on one side and ketchup on the other. On the bottom bun I want half a tomato sliver on one side and minced onions on the other. Dead center of the bottom bun I’d like one pickle slice—a big one. Now—and this is the most important part—make sure when assembling this burger to place the top bun where the center lines of both the top bun and bottom bun are not aligned. I want them crisscrossed—perpendicular to the center line—so it’s like eating four separate burgers. If I cut it like a pie in four pieces, all four will be different. On burger number two I want—”
“Yo, hold on mister, that’s too much to ask for. We can’t do that.”
I mumble, “Look punk, get your manager. I don’t like your tone.”
“The manager isn’t here, but even if he was he wouldn’t make some crazy order like that.”
“What’s the sodium content of a Big-Mac? And does a Big-Mac have the preservative calcium propionate? I’m allergic to it. If I eat it my thyroid will swell into a rigid goiter and choke me to death. And I’m not in the mood to die today. Please check the ingredient labels or call home office to find out. And check the label on that orange snot-frappé you squirt on there too . . . the secret sauce, whatever the hell that’s supposed to be.”
The cop’s face is broiling red, blood filling every vessel to maximum pressure and I prayed him to die. Die. Die pig die. Die die die drop dead like a beheaded tick picked from the scrotum of a wild boar. As I’m mentally chanting my kill-cop-death-hymn he whips his pistol quick with fleet rapidity grabbing an old woman by the throat with muscular talons and says, “I can taste your stench,” splintering skull with three slugs—brain sausage puked from flesh-melon upholstering the floor in meat-shag. She crumpled as cold arthritic knee caps cracked on checkered tile. Dead. Not what I expected to say the least.
I turn to the young red-head behind me and say, “Hi little school girl, I’m a school boy too.”
The vicious cop unleashed a blood-storm of lead—lifeless bodies shredded into human McNuggets and thickened gun smoke hung dead—demonic flatulence from the rectum of Satan. Frigid fingers tap my shoulder as the manager says, “Reginald, snap out of it. Have you been smoking pot? Your eyes are red.”
I glance in the mirror left of the register and there I stand, a sixteen year old black boy with an Ipod in my back pocket. So I’m confused. Disoriented. Maybe I had a psychizoid embolism. The young woman across the counter says, “Hi little school boy, I’m a school girl too.”
I notice my flesh is white, fingernails glistening lime-green as I lay on my back—naked and legs spread wide. A doctor cloaked in mirrored sunglasses says, “Squeeze Mia . . . squeeze. You’re almost there.”
“Who am I? What the hell is happening to me?”
Nurse Paloma says, “I think the epidural is kicking in. Honey . . . you are Mia Dunwoody. You’re having a baby. Everything’s going to be OK. Just squeeze.”
I see the reflection of my face in the doctor’s glasses . . . a red-headed freckle faced white girl with a pug nose. I glance down as my breasts jiggle, nipples hard and filled with nourishing milk. I will definitely breast feed. Babies on formula usually have frail immune systems. A man’s hairy arm is shat from my vagina, but I feel no pain. Bloody mucous spurts, my back buckles as a man’s head bursts from cloven crevice.”
Nurse Paloma says, “Oh my god! It’s a full grown man.”
He wedges and squirms using muscular hands to pry himself free. It’s Bobby Revell. I have given birth to myself. He twirls icy fingers betwixt my hairless snatch and uproots the vein wreathed placenta, amniotic sac with umbilical cord—biting his virgin teeth into its juice stuffed membrane, suckling fluidic decadence and sliding his naked body atop mine.
I’m so hot, so wet with excitement I explode in passion. He sucks milk chewing my left nipple and slips buckram rod inside me, humping wild and free. We share blackened afterbirth with humid tongue as I fuck myself beneath hot lights.
Satisfaction. Belly full. Dualistic ejaculation. Insane.
Mia, myself and I.
And they say be yourself. Be who you are. There is only one of you so be that. Though I occupy myself, I feel like I just moved in. An inhabitant. Jigsaw personality. Offshoot tendril. Stranger in a skull. Who am I on a Sunday when the wind is stale and bitter consequence pervades my every mood? Who was I ten minutes before when ten thousand angles of reflected theorem was seen by endless dwellers—thriving in my head?
What in God’s name is wrong with everybody else?
