Quandaries of the Dog Star
There were calumnies to dispense with, and cathesix to undertake. She was delirious and desirous of delectations. The obdurate hitman was hitting the hair of the dog bequeathed to Sirius. My canines were shredding my alveolar nerves—pound pound pound in my head to the grind grind grind of my—
“I don’t know,” I say, “it sounds like gas leaking out of a primer bulb.”
“Huh?” she says, “you mean that glug glug glug?”
“No, it’s more like a bloob bloob bloob.”
“No, come on,” she says taking pliers out of her formal black clutch. “Come here a second.”
“What are you doing with that?” I say.
“It’s a glug glug glug. Open your mouth.”
“I’m going to the dentist tomorrow, no need for that, baby doll.”
She backhoes my collar into a handy throttle, strangulating (and incinerating my mind)—forces my mouth open and starts to pull out my cuspids singing:
“Here’s for every time you called me baby, here’s for every time you called me moll, here’s for every time you called me sweetie, here’s for every time you called me doll…”
Oh, the fire, the heat, the hate, the searing pain—like Canis Major chewing off its own paw from a steel trap jaw.
The pain abated to a sated place of mindful equanimity. The slanders ceased. The stars hummed a pleasant minor chord.
Yes, I speak with a lisp now, and always say “please, Maria, may I? Please?” And somehow life is as it should be.
“She confused my powerful smell for a cry from the street.
She confused my exhalation for better living through chemistry.”
— Ben Lerner / The Lichtenberg Figures