sometimes statements of fact come as unsolicited opinions. “i saw your blog,” my friend tells me. we are faded, ambling down an complex-studded street. typical urban l.a., minus us. the dusky haze has shielded his expression. i look over, but he sports only an expectant look.
next door to my parents’ apartment (dingy; slightly brown from age; faux-modernist interior), there lives a woman with a chihuahua. we share with her a narrow staircase, framed by cobwebs. i do not know who is home more often: the woman, me, or the dog. i do not know why the dog offers his daily rehearsal. what i do know is that at the echo of a pat (the cough of a conductor’s baton), he begins a symphony of yaps. it is vicious, incessant. perversely postmodernist. just me, i told him, and when he didn’t stop: suck my dick. i stuff the baton down his throat. enough with artistic evaluation.
sometimes i wonder what it’s all for. can the inscrutable be consumed. have i been vaccinated–against my doctor’s recommendations–by the consumptive impulse. ?. i say i didn’t remember releasing the link. i ask my friend what he thought about the blog anyway. the expectant look shifts, crowds smug incognizance: “it’s…interesting”
a symphony could have fit in the suggestion of the pause. i cough. he says, “do you want krista to read it.” tap tap. i don’t care, i say. i’m not writing for her. yap yap. a silent encore before i swallow the song. he eats the baton. that’s how the chihuahua died, on a cliff; the audience didn’t even clap.