Severed the guts of goats to read the insides, and I didn’t like what they had to say. Keep your name like a secret, imbue it with awesomeness, and unleash it on the unsuspecting, it said. It’s too late late late.
Like me you hear the skritchings of rats whenever salespeople spoke, and together we’d look at them with inky contempt and claim they smelled like kebabs: a mix of garlic, beef and malfeasance.
There were other moments: back in Mendoza, at the shrine carved into rock, mocking Jesus, tempting hell together, and saying stuff like, “that’s not salvation, that’s work ethic.” And what’s the difference between heaven and hell? No sense of whimsy, the smell of rotten milk, people who say “I am the sea,” and actually mean it. Ugh!
There was a time when you could roll your eyes, babe, and I would always know what it meant, and a time when I would walk hand in hand to the gallows with you, but now it’s time to take bit between yr teeth and grit them chompers.
So rake up all those moments we had, and keep them in your head, tattoo them to the inside of your eyelids. Refer to them constantly, the good and the bad. Think about them as you trace your fingers across your rasceta in that way you always do.
Written on Sunday, 22 April 2012