First Course In Turbulence

Three Weeks Late

Three Weeks Late Because they’ve forgotten they’re slaves, the man and woman are lying in bed, windows open, curtains closed. Outside, an enormous variety of birds, none saying remotely tweet. Hacksaw underwater, little helpless-without-you. On one hand they’re two gods agreeing to appear entirely human, on the other there’s no agreement at all. Under all these bandages, where’re the pharaohs? Alternately, they sit, arch, phosphoresce, satellite upon each other, their masks so slippery with goo they smack back onto the face, stinging it, bringing tears to the eyes. Tears to the eyes in the realm of the irreversible which means here come the spurned others, one he left crying, one she told the truth and left shouting. They stick for a moment to the walls like wet crepe paper but then the sun scours them away. In DeKooning’s big red picture, there’s a slaughter of the visible but the visible fights back and wins. Because it wants to go on forever? Silly thing that wants to go on forever. And because they’re not sure if they’ll ever wake, the man and woman are still lying in bed. Black lacquer box full of jewels. A novel with a forest fire at its core. Let’s 86 paint your kitchen tomorrow, says the man. I’m already asleep, answers the woman but then the phone rings and when they get up to not answer it, there’s all this blood on the sheet. 87 ...