Wednesday, July 21, 2010

The forbidden pop-ins in the Alabamaz

We are armed against the apocalypse; we've barricaded our flimsy doors (no screen doors, wtf) with towels against the heat and guns against the arrivals.

Tha angel of death is on the way and no one knows anything about Passover here. The angel of death is on the way and no one knows anything about Kafka. The angel of death is Kafka and I will invite him in and I will ask him if he wants me to remove that rotting apple. I will ask him what music means and how scurrying up a wall can change your perspective.

I will ask him what bugs eat, if he can show me both what and how before the world ends.

Before the world ends, there are a lot of things I want to ask Kafka, but some of them'll get lost in a bureaucracy and some of them'll get lost in a broken "m" key and some of them'll just get lost and some of them'll get lost in all the moonshine I've been making out of your used bathwater.

I want to ask Kafka what he's afraid of, but that's just because I want someone to tell my fears to. Someone I don't see every day; someone, like an angel of death, who can get past my semi-automatics and my land mines and my dumb dog named Bo Bo who will rip your throat out just for looking at me or singing off key or popping in or not bringing any fortifications. Like a pillow or a blanket even.

I am afraid that I'll be talking dirty and I'll say I want you.

I am afraid I'll be talking the sex talks and I'll say I love you.

I am afraid I'll be talking the sex talks and I want you'll morph into Get in me, which is not scary at all, but then it'll morph into Get in me belly, and I'll have to pretend I'm a sperm-eating pirate or Mike Myers and neither option is oh so sexy.

If I went the Myers route, it would be a weird montage of bald and mini-me and bad teeth and tight pants and head. Look at the size of that boy's's like an orange on a toothpick...

If I went the pirate route, neither of us could take my tongue seriously and you would laugh every time my mouth got near you. I would make smooshy fish lips in your peripheral vision while you watched television, even. I could buy an eye patch, tho, just in case you got over your pirate aversion or whatever. And I'd practice my pirate speaks while you slept. I could accessorize my eye patch with a new semi-automatic and a welcome matt that says hi in German for Herr Kafka. I could practice my German pirate speaks and that'd be taking it somewhere no one would want to go, not even Kafka and he's upside down like a huge cockroach in a puddle of my vomit right now.

Your apocalypse-girl,


  1. would you ask kafka what it was like to have little tiny bug feet?