qethsegol

bruniik

(lululemon

assassin)

 

i stand

at my

kitchen

counter.

through

my

window,

two

teenage

girls

stand on

the walk

in front

of my

house.

they talk

with one

another,

laugh,

play

with

their

cell

phones.

i fix

myself a

whiskey

and

water

while i

watch

these

strange

creatures.

they talk

like

dancers

with

answers

and

secrets. i

hear

tommy

roe’s,

“sweet

pea,”

and i

think

about

oliver

sacks

on mars.

i

pretend

my

whiskey

and

water is

warm

milk.

i pour a

pentagram

of salt

on the

counter

thirty

inches in

diameter,

imagine

saturn on

fire. i read

frank

miller’s,

“the dark

knight

returns,”

backwards,

in latin, out

loud. an

unironic

smoke

cloud

explodes

from my

table

spices. a

six inch

demon

with an

erection

sings

danny

kaye’s,

“civilization,”

three

bright

horse

white

angels

play his

andrews 

sisters. i

applaud

effusively

when they

finish, but

they just

don’t

believe

me. so

awfully

often the

case, my

sincerity

mistaken

for

bullshit. i

shrug my

shoulders

and flatten

the demon

beneath

the

indifferent

palm of

my

concerned

right hand.

i lick the

mess

clean,

suck my

middle

finger

like a

pacifier.

the

angels

cower,

but i just 

open the

window

and

listen to

the

ghosts

who

haunt

my attic

vie for

position.

someone

wins and

i am

none the

wiser.

it rains,

but not

really.

i relate

more

than

i care

to admit.

i chew

my

tongue

like gum.

like if i

thought

that

coltan

came

from

unicorn

farts

instead

of 

pigmy

slave

labor,

i’d be

won’t

to

wash

my

hands

less.

i sleep

like a

baby

in a

coma.

when

i

wake,

i’m a

bosmer

in

rorikstead,

a small

farming

community

toward the

western

edge of

whiterun’s

border

with the

reach. i

travel

south and

east on

road to

falkreath,

but follow

the water

to

riverwood

where

lake

ilinalta

meets

the

white

river.

later

that

evening,

at the

sleeping

giant inn,

i pay

orgnar

for a

room.

behind

the door,

i get

pangs of

nostalgia

for my

homeland

of

valenwood

like ball

peen

teeth.

my

marrow

moans

for the

walking

city of

falinesti,

greatest

of all the

grhat-oaks.

some

asshole

asks

delphine

about the

attic room

and i

couldn’t

give a

skeever’s

shit about

it. i unplug

some

spiced

wine from

evette san

in solitude

and then,

i am the

virgin’s

dirty

fingers.

billions of

potential

bastards

later, with

another

thompson’s

and water,

my albert

einstein

action

figure

struggles

to make

sense of

the

universe

with only

one

piece of

chalk and

seven

points of

articulation.

meanwhile,

the varsity

cheerleaders

of a local

high school

hold a car

wash

fundraiser

in the

mcdonald’s

parking lot

across the

street.

i

stare

at a

pair

of

yoga

pants

and

though

part of

me is

happy,

mostly,

i feel

confused.