The red bearded man with blue eyes looks thinner. He wants to be terrorized. He uses a pencil and a thread and needle and ink for his home made tattoos.
He reads Viking poems Gary Snider and the Mercury for equanimity. On his left thigh he has a tattoo of a skull.
They assimilate torture when they make movies about it, the red bearded man said.
I thought he left for Iceland this week but he said he is going in a month.
He has bangs and long hair.
They call him in to cut eyes out of fresh cadavers. He has been on his feet for the
past two days. His eyes are squinty and embers.
I have a five year old daughter. Soon I will be dead. She talks to me about death. She talks to me about my imminent death. I only listen.
I go out for Starbucks coffee on East Burnside. I pass by W’s house. It’s always dark inside. I want to fuck her. I would like to talk to her first. Her talk would be fluent. She strikes me as a smart young woman. She has a straight nose and olive skin.
I have mental blocks from decades of self abuse and ripostes from frustrated wanna be writer doctors and asshole critics who call my writing victim writing. I would place my silence(madness) in our conversation to impress W with mystery. She wouldn’t be able to stand the silence that is like nausea and arson. My wife hates her. She hates me. She will divorce me and refuse to have a relationship with a man to punish me with her unhappiness. She hates any attractive woman who she doesn’t know and who I want to get to know. I think for her it’s a question of survival. I don’t know any young attractive women or men. They don’t want to know me. I saw a young man on W’s property the other day. I looked away when he looked me dead in the eye. I think I can take him in a fight. I would like to fight him and then have him fuck me for good measure, especially if he dominates me.
W’s husband is a balding young man with dour blue eyes and an omniscient smile. I wouldn’t want to be his wife. He’s impotent.
Whenever I walk by W’s house I want to fuck the house. I want to level the house with my fuck I say to myself. The house as I said is empty. There never is a light. It reminds me of my childhood home. I want to fill it with my joy.
It’s five in the morning. W is in her bed asleep. Her husband is away. I place my fingers in her hair. She turns to me. She has an odd smile. We kiss. I tell her I can’t live without her.
My glasses were misplaced. I think my wife hides them from me on purpose.
I know I didn’t see them on the small round table where she said she found them.
I lost my last pair of glasses, they inexplicably fell out of the car when I stepped out to look at
spindly black trees. I suspect my wife took them. There have been other items that have disappeared. My wife is taking things to disorient me.
My wife only sleeps with me when I wash myself. I don’t mind sleeping with her if she smells.
I remember my death. A tall winsome woman with small breasts and long muscular legs gave me a nose bleed that didn’t stop. Her father’s father slept with a gangster’s wife and had to flee Russia. She said I should read Little Birds and The Model. I thought the stories were good but stylized.