For the doorknob, today began never once upon a time with a mash-up of younger Vincenz Serrano’s I walking away from the you and immortal Ophelia Dimalanta’s I flinging arrows: Read this idiolect, read well, decode, detect and for the you to love the I when it seems to hate.
Mash-ups… It’s so…Glee.
To which the doorknob said “Fuck this shit” and up it went with the elevator, the world just muzak, and got off--- the door opening to a brain--- this white telegram screen of fast forward birds. To the brain, the doorknob was a bird plucked from that Hitchcock flock (the doorknob supposes, it didn’t ask). The doorknob was sweating in the humidity--- it was raining somewhere but not there--- straightening this and that to see the corners of rooms, there, space.
The brain said for it to sit down and relax--- here, the arr-pirates’ found gold in the Philippines, here shake Mr. Jack’s hand from Tennessee, here is St. Michael, here again is pyrite, oh the fool’s piss gold in the Philippines.
The doorknob took the brain around its rooms--- here is some dude who likes overpricing the color orange named Ascalan--- here is Norman Isaac with his big heads, here is Anita Magsaysay Ho--- pronounce it as Ho not Ho--- here is Nuni Alvarado who likes his sugar canes bloody--- Here is Paz Abad Santos, no that was Pacita Abad it last saw as a bridge of Trapunto in Singapore, and here is Onib Olmedo who did not die poor for his widow drives a BMW. That? That is Arturo Luz, a paperweight. Art.
They are birds to the brain--- But what the hell is that doing there? That was Twilight. Well, someone there was a fan of mash-ups of love stories. Ah, ah, but see--- And there it was the VHS Star Wars trilogy. But A New Hope is better watched in Betamax. Oh Luke, that almost twin-sister-fucker. And yeah, the doorknob wishes too sometimes that 1-2-3 (remembering cackling in the cinema to Revenge of The Sith because it was really just a love story) weren’t made but it’s done. And so there now exists Star Wars 1 to 6 like the seconds the yogi says for the doorknob to take before breathing shit out.
The doorknob opened to a half-Japanese flower who likes taking photos of vaginas in non-Ikebana and it spoke to the brain in Nihonggo while the brain replies in Chinese, like
The doorknob rattled, “That’s…That’s holy fucking shit.” Life, the doorknob was being called by these two old queens like Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, “Our beloved Princess, where are you?” The doorknob said, “I’m in my tower, growing my hair. And you?” We’re waiting for our Princess, like aswangs or warlocks or like good old fairies.
The doorknob opened to a bottle of Sangria who brought songs unsung in the airwaves, the sound of the younger and “You’re gonna frea-king laaaahvet!” discussed skating the line between Self-Affirmation and Self-Absorption. To be new age Jesus babies, self-help junkies. Oh just stick to Self-Awareness. And what of Carnal Sincerity? It does not exist, the Sangria said, “I want to fuck you with sincerity?” It does though as a paradox.
Into the blue room: The brain said, “I want to repaint it.” Do whatever you want with it, the doorknob said. Posters there, light saber here, Yoda’s head there, Delorian here, Scarface would be too much, and have you seen a Death Star somewhere? Why don’t we just make it.
The brain stroked the doorknob like the cat it has always wanted. Both stared through the windows, the city, the horizon. Spoke of bus stops and trains and yes--- the night rises and does not fall, the brain said this makes sense. A day has passed.
“I am your kryptonite,” the brain drawled, smelling like a wry rainbow, wanting to smell like unicorn droppings or the musk of a centaur or anything from the myth shit list.
The doorknob giggled like a high school girl, “Fuck you.” And there it was again, Cee Lo Green caroling “Fuck you” since December.
Again, gluck to gleek. Onto the elevator, the brain said to the doorknob, “Not dead. Just dormant. Something unexpected on Monday.”
The doorknob felt it--- the beating, several seconds, held it--- the door closed and it returned to the way it was before, the way it has been for months, is.
One of the old queens then said, “Dead as a doorknob sucks.”
The doorknob said, “And the dead is stirring.”
It is Monday.
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