Skid

Dead Dean

Dead Dean I’m thinking about the dead Dean swimming in the night’s muscle. It’s good to see him up and about, recovered from who knows what who knows how, enjoying the cherry on top of the purgative, the weather with its fists of tulips and nails. I love to watch him come out of the rain struggling with his octopi, getting the singe back in his eye. Him and his corollaries, him and his postulates. Don’t even get him started on the genitalia of atoms. Don’t be fooled by clarity, there’s always something behind it. Sometimes he likes to gather us novices under a rain shelter, smoke rising from his shoulders the way it does from the edges of equations where the blade’s stropped so thin it disappears. Nothing can cut him then. Not the hornets in his message box, not the curriculum. About there being no dancers among the dead, Lorca was wrong. The dead Dean shoots out a pseudopod and it’s dancing. The dead Dean nods off—dancing! He walks 22 a strange city, streetlights disconnected laughter, square coins. Fierce and fiercer the road rose, the word rose. He creates an air of secrecy to support the myth of intimacy which is often accomplished by opacity. Not bad for a guy who bleeds so fast, half his sandwich is blood. Hey na yeah yah go go uh oh dead Dean! 23 ...