May 23, 2007
Kelis and the Sewn-On Man Part the Second:
A New Series of Short Shorts
Part the First
It was hard not to surrender to the impetus of it all. I mean, to put a name on a t-shirt is one thing, but Kelis had my name tattooed on her derrière, for God's sake. Our minibike stolen, our dreams shattered, our money lost, we drank ourselves insane; lost ourselves in the townfolk and glow or Murfreesboro, Tennessee. When I slumped against a wall at the Gas and Grip Convenience Store, the first stitch broke. When I woke up and vomited, it was night and there were no binds between Kelis and I. She had neutered me of her-- gutted me and left me for living.
I imagine her hand around the throat of the earth, ripping the dirt out with her empty ring finger like a pharynx. Her chaotic howls of sexual release still flowed through my saliva as I expecotrated on the ground. Chunks of vomit clung to my RocaWears that I scored from Ras Kass's house last July. Our road trip had come to an end once there too. Our argument this tine, though, was not a misunderstanding. Instead, it was a complete silence that washed over us and tore the strings that bound us. She never snipped the stitches-- they had come undone long ago; the wind tousling them as they hung from my pale arms as I bartered my way through meals and bummed change in hopes to get somewhere to brush my teeth.