ALABAMA FIRES by Fin Sorrel

July 3, 2018 by RJ

ALABAMA FIRES

When I wake up, I notice the Velour tablet resembling chalk (half-life) behind my swollen tongue. I had been dreaming I was a lost child in the Moyne age. In my dream I had strapped on my jaw a tightened mouthpiece.

A litter of pigs surround me, follow at my feet, the farrow do not leave my side, And I fear now I may trample the poor things.

Rubbing my eyes, I swallow the small Velvet dose of Velour, and my heart beat is heard as the decimal of sounds in my bedroom raise to a size of the voluptuous female giant –

The skin acts as a hollow for tall blonde waves, between folded cloth sunset and thin felt tsunami’s.

The air acts as a filter for the eyes to roam across the room to the table where the papers and picture frames make up conversations from satellite television

Down along the straw into juice and sewing kits, and stone cigarette smoke

Amber rose concentric gold pine needle blanket seat that I arch upon, my fleeting mood drifts in a southern wind through Virginia, I’m carried on the ants that crawl through the pine needles down this road.

 

I come across a double headed baby tiger, half deer in the dessert, crossing the street deserted-

Transsexual girl with a shaved head, we meet up in the deserted town, off to her house. I try to offer driving Molly’s sisters car. Almost wreck it somewhere at night, behind an alleyway.

I’m drawing in the girl’s bathroom; someone’s in there, looking at me in horror, as I draw a heart so Misc. might see it.

 

Woke up by my dad, who leaves for work in the morning, he sees me in the road, walking to a restaurant, his face is confused but he doesn’t have time to stop.

At the restaurant, I meet the transsexual girl, and her three punk friends, who offer I come to their house, mentioning something about Misha. So, excited I walk with them through the deserted town, passing abandoned hotels, across the old train tracks since out of commission. We all see the two headed baby deer crossing the abandoned streets. The deer’s one head bobs down and lifts a little after camouflaging behind its body, to reveal another head, a baby bobcat, and then a tiger cub.

Sadness of gods shows up on televisions nearby, lingering clouds and lies for sale.

God comes, bending around a corner in the words that are hooked to a boat, in sunrise. On this boat God is carrying a box of keys.

A siren makes heat patterns on my shoulder and neck, devouring any recognizable sound other, the ears are devoured, and the siren hunts the deserted land for secrets. Land that once served as a booming industry for the working class, now infested with half breads, only shadows, wandering through a priceless interstate, of wastelands, threatening extinction, replaced by our calm gestures of gallons of booze and dozens of cigarette packages littering the back alleys.

That super market, forty years ago, a memory runs its fingers through my mind, through my hair, through the air above me, a dusty hand grabs the shelf and objects, a form now folded away and boarded up the cellophane removed and rotting meat beneath caked in maggots. Memories sewn deeply into the fabric of my long sleeve shirt I am now viewing within a trance, not allowed to look away. Bats above my head watch me, waiting for a reaction, or so I will feed the paranoia grapes.

They shave the yard away, the orange dead that creates dust; I put on my handkerchief over my neck and press it over my face, as a simple sawing away of clovers, and shivering of machine blades clumsy, cuts at the nasty heart and stones fly.

We grow infinite embers and chambers in this moment as I wait in my squat, boarded up three story house along the old train yard in East County. Every house on the block is empty or used mainly for drug use, or a flop house. Less Rosemary grows these days along the tracks.

Terry Lumbers past the window drinking his 40 oz., he spits violently, like blood, like he was hit hard, and spits with a violent gesture to say, I am stronger than you. He and I met at the local soup kitchen; we’ve been hanging out for years.

Coins drop out of my pocket, and he turns to the squat. My heart is black and white houndstooth; a falling of brown grass slowly crosses the street from the yard, and lands on Terry.

Soft, intricate, he handles the flakes of grass, wiping them off, and walking up to the front door of the squat. I read the lexicon in the living room in my mask, he bangs the door.

Come in, I shout. He stumbles over the tress, and puts his hand out with the beer.

Here, he foils and stumbles at the nail poking sideways at the entrance. I laugh. He releases violence, but keeps the beer stable through it.

His is a very carnage individual. He has symptoms I will have to process later.

I feel like I’m losing breath, so I take off the mask and chug some beer.

Goodness threads over me, like vines, through me like passageways of the red light rolled gently into a dryer full of shoes and boots and clogs.

I burp.

And the ace, Terry is dancing now, his hair feeling flies, helping infinity by twisting his knotted jaded body into ladders sideways, and adhering mirror to his chest from the wall in my living quarters, and aiming the light of the sun out the door.

This leather boots with no souls left, he spins, and I hand him back the beer half finished, half full. He pours alcoholic license plates into his giant mouth, singing through the gargled liquid out of a small orange cat, and the cat comes by, landing from the balcony, on the steps, and wanders inside.

We act like were having a shootout in a western, our blond hair swimming through the room, and blending into the cat, in a purple blur of silk




ALABAMA SMOKE RINGS

The three of us turn our bodies into a shaped fire, our feet are bent in the fusion, above a list of looping belt buckles that are our water stilettos, where in cigarette smoke (with the cat) we cross beaver dams of hat, dimension to the front of my morning with the Velour tabs, I sit up in the couch, and see Terry is turning his body into the cats. The sun burns out into grey skies – a shape of fire I’ve somehow forgotten about has ignited in the old fire place. I’m petting the cat “Terry” drinking my 40 oz. I first started feeding Terry a year ago in the backyard, when he was skittish, now floating under clouds in my three story house.

In the sky, in my sandwich of Terry human, and Terry kitty cat, alley cat, what’s the difference if I really walked to the store for the 40, and imagined Terry human?

In my head are white statues, they are silent figures, marble quail.

The rain starts tapping at the roof while I pet the cat. I roll up a cigarette and light it.

I think I’m hearing Honking trains at a floating station, somewhere, southern drawl turning down the tracks, but those lines have been abandoned for years.

Bicycles, reaching math, spin a hand, riding around in my living room, drunk as a skunk. The 40 is gone.

The cat plays with string on the couch. White aluminum wood American flag, pink native string, collecting string, nesting statues deeper in my mind, silent figures.

( II. )

I ride around the squat, sipping the 40. My bike has a loose chain. The smell reminds me of a geometry lesson, it is three forty p.m. The sawing of the grass, they are attempting to clean up the neighborhood, the sawing enters my mind, buzzes the statues, the instructions lying on a sheet of paper, next to the statues:  

“Prior to pencils, postmarked, four with compass, and battery, mirror thermos, camera

braided my Izzy belle necklaces.

Think feast.”

Sudden quiet full of stars, the zodiac nest, believed, and gathered, undressed and blanketed.

No insistent sawing.

I peek out the window, watch him in his orange hat, carrying branches away.

I sit back on the couch. My 40 oz. Is full again, and capped. The cat releases Terry, spitting up a hairball mixed with him onto the wood floor.

I have an Epiphany, via sound waves

One:

“~ Ships are drifting ghosts.

I lie in my bed in the middle of the sea. Towns pass, full of toy radios at the harbor. Glass rains down into the cats eyes. I cry bottles of pinot noir from above this, watching castles on the horizon. There, whales bloom”

Two:

“ I have a flavored bruise,  my coat is in periphery within the eye – form loses black Spanish radio broadcast- from now on I will live gargantuan, and ministry gypsies, so says the liner, string hides away icebergs all after image the scarlet fur coats.

Timepiece importance is Arnica for the spine. The air is parsnip, echoing elegance, the forlorn come pleased, and foam. Radio waves dangle hats over the Cadillac Deville.”

Terry coughs up a small two headed deer that lands in puss on the wood floor, and nurtures it, shivering in the hairball of slime, and the cat’s hair. I give the baby deer a blessing, saying:

“Instruments along your legs, merging you into the winding Latticework and gypsy vines entangle flutes, wind! I run my bloated, drunk fingers through the gypsy curtain for a stinging nettle tongue, hair-of-the-dog-beer, just waking tablecloth hair, and staring at the monitor polka dot ~”

The shivering deer wobbles to life, and wanders around the squat, one head decides one way, the other head decides opposite.

Terry collapses from the traumatic birth to the floor. The cat sneaks into my bedroom. I crack my fresh 40, and guzzle it.

The

Sawing

    Starts

Back

Up

                Out

There.

 

– RJ-

 

FIN SORREL is the author of CARAMEL FLOODS (pski porch, 2017) and SAND LIBRARY (abp, 2018) he runs mannequin haus (infii2.weebly.com).
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