SELECTED PROSE
by
Willie Smith
ENGLISH AS A SECOND ORGASM
I was surrounded by simply tons of simpletons. Countless morons, more on than off, roared – emitting continual anacondas of unintentional anacoluthon. Hyperactive dopes repeatedly hit themselves in vain. Time and again the retarded ticked. Several blockheads unwittingly blocked their own heads off at the pass. There were even – doing it right up front – a few fucking idiots.
I nonetheless proceeded with my lecture on the Dumbbell. That bright planetary in Vulpecula – meaning “The Little Fox.”
I was delving into details about the thirteen billion year old dwarf at the heart of the nebula when a shot rang out. Some dumdum in the back fired a dumdum at my head. The round, I noted, turning around briefly, had splatted into the blackboard.
Inevitably, the sun, too, will become a planetary. But not for another nine billion Christmases. I made a mental note to after class split like an infinitive the dumdum’s skull.
Vaguely resembling ironpumping equipment, the Dumbbell fluoresces at precisely 5007 Angstroms – Greek, served up in scientific Swedish, for smack-dab in the middle of the green, where the eye happens to be ultra-sensitive. Ionized oxygen creates this fluorescence. Well, the fiendishly hot dwarf causes, actually, the oxygen comprising the surrounding nebula to fluoresce.
As I drew out the final syllable’s sibilance – to emphasize the magnificence of this stellar powerhouse – some idiot climaxed. I made a note to bestow an A. You expect these cretins to understand zilch. So when one openly achieves orgasm, you know something has after all been absorbed. I consoled myself, pretending I had made the world soul greater, or at least nebulously more grateful.
In nine billion years, when our sun goes planetary, we, along with the whole earth, will of course be wolfed. A thermonuclear feast of solar system proportions that will leave nary a recognizable cinder of Momma Terra. An environmental disaster no Tower of Babel of Sierra Clubs and Green Parties – however ambitious – could ever avert or overturn.
Although perhaps by then rockets shall in some future perfect have infested human elsewhere. Maybe direct takeover of the sun. Manhandle nine bill years of technology to refather the race right back up Old Sol’s butt. Plasma circuits transfer entire circus to computer games inside fusion culture of the damn dwarf holocausting earth to begin with.
Dumbbell a thousand light years off; meaning a thousand years retarded; Dumbbell I see Dumbbell of a thousand years ago, a thousand years young; and if Dumbbell could see me, Dumbbell would see Anglo Saxons in charge of England and the Crab walking backwards not even yet to be.
“Germans,” a lusty moron howls above the tohu-bohu, “be the only real human. Hold the germ of holy man square in their noun. Germans the only dodos can do the do – no doodoo! Our proudest and most complete mongoloid of a wannabe wasp ijit!”
I was surrounded by simply tons of simpletons. Every blessed gram of whom was right – in wing, in heart, in mind, in barrel, in monkey, in god, in bung.
The sole human is your germ!
Then the dumdum shot him in the head. Him took it in eye, as I came right up alongside the accelerating inevitably – even German – to multiply to the other side suicide; for the race to play the word out. Even after the gunfire, there remained, up front, a few, despite the cops coming, idiots copulating.
© Willie Smith
EVEN COWGIRLS GET THE CLAP
Out in the corral Little Joe mounted Hoss. A dust devil kicked up, as the pair set about disporting in gay abandon.
Gilligan came along; seized the opportunity; came all along Hoss’s big flabby cheeks.
Ben Cartwright sat on the porch wolfing cartwheels. He had a lot of work to do, wanted first to cop a righteous buzz. Kept an eye on his sons having a little unprotected fun.
Adam wrestled inside the barn with Mr. McGoo, both hoping to climax alone in Mr. Ed’s mouth. Adam got the old cartoon fart in a half-nelson and it looked totally like the suave poke was gonna be free to spew his goo first.
Meanwhile, back at the raunch, Hoss had thrown Little Joe. Stood on the verge of missionary-style popping the virgin’s rectal cherry.
Then along came Miss Kitty, with in tow a dozen of her pole cats from the Long Branch. When she caught sight of Adam about to jizz Mr. Ed’s teeth, her pussy – muffled through the long tight skirt she wore week after week – farted.
Marshall Dillon – beating the Hawaiian shirt off the Captain in a saloon at poker – heard Kitty’s pussy’s distress call. Came running. Wiped himself up running. Came upon the bonanza. Shot everybody up with Mexican brown, so Kitty and the pole cats could enjoy themselves in peace; without missing a beat, holstered his piece, running back to stud with the Captain.
All the boys on the nod, Gilligan moped. Kicked pebbles through occasional devils. Stepped over a tarantula. Accidentally crushed a pissant. Figured, well, maybe next week jerk in his hat off. Let the viewers catch as catch can. They never anyway caught on.
The uproar of an impromptu can-can came from the barn. Gilligan – born survivor, natural jerk, great masturbator – unable to rock to the beat – morphed into Coyote under a rock at noon asleep, while the devil became this most becoming dream.
© Willie Smith
GENUINE IMITATION
Decided to imitate Hitler. Donned puffed-out pants, one leg at a time. Likewise shiny leather boots. While slipping into a lacy black brassiere, I let my moustache grow. Kept it trimmed neat and square. Dyed it with Kiwi polish from pre-occupied Poland.
My hair was a mess. Tamed it reasonably. Climbed into a blouse with a swarm of fruitcocktail, two oak leaves with clusters, plus the very fruitcake I’m nuttier than.
Then I chose a Goering – a nice fat kid from down the street with a penchant for sumptuous uniforms, chorus girls, choice art. Goebbels had been dogging me from the outset – a shrivelled little prick who seemed to crawl out of the woodwork nailed over the old rutabega cellar.
Himmler I snatched off a chicken farm. Promised a job to do with ovens and trains; much cleaner work. He’d like it, could use his brains, get ahead, great retirement. Benefits up the butt.
A Mesmer was harder to find. You know, the behind-the-scenes scientist who hypnotizes the masses into war on three fronts while exterminating from within? We thought of Nietzsche; but due to insanity, him we just couldn’t convince.
My dad trundled home in the middle of all this – drunk as a lord. I threw back, undaunted, my cowlick. Shot my arm up at his face. Exclaimed he’d best Hail Victory!
“Hell Vicary,” Dad slurred, slumping down the wall toward the floor.
“Dad!” I ran over not quite in time to cushion as he flopped sideways, banged his head on the rug. “Dad, c’mon! I’m playing Hitler and you hafta be the hypnotist. The clown who makes the masses stupid with hate!”
“Relax,” Dad mumbled, eyes closed. “You are getting tired. Tired. Very tired.”
I motioned to picklepuss, “Hsst! Goebbels – get over here!”
“Getting woozy,” Dad drooled onto the shag. “Very… woozy. Go… sleep.” Lapsed into a long wheezy snore.
Goebbels argued for kicking Dad in the conk. Drunk bum better off dead. With a flick of my cowlick I ordered Goebbels quiet. Commanded Himmler to get over here pork Dad in the chops. Himmler jumped chopchop at the opportunity.
Goebbels took the hint. Creeped around from behind. Rolled down Dad’s pants. “Livingroom!” Joseph yelled. “America must expand to the East!”
Paging through The Saturday Evening Post, Goering smiled blubly. Halted on page 50 to admire The Fall of Icarus.
I marched past the sofa. Screamed at the dead TV, “Today the moon. Tomorrow – Iceland!”
“Bugger God with a star drill!” Goebbels grunted. Discharged his peashooter into Dad’s nether pulsar.
I spun around in time to catch Himmler empty his own homegrown Luger; lather Dad’s face with billions of spermatozoa genetically engineered to resemble microscopic SS lightning bolts.
Which doubly climactic moment Mom chose to bustle in with her shopping. She started to babble dinner would be late because she had gotten hung up at Safeway, when at her feet she spotted Dad coated with slime – pants around ankles, ass mysteriously uplifted; snoring through contorted sex stench like a fullthrottle Homelite.
“Don’t ask!” I shouted. Glanced around. Realized my entire Nazi cabinet had fled. Likely barricaded in the bathroom popping cyanide caps.
But you know how moms are – her cue to ask anyway.
“No call to get emotional!” I sprinted into the kitchen. Raced back out in a panic with a turkey baster. Ran nozzle up Pop’s sphincter. Squeezed bulb. Sucked out Joseph’s seed.
With a gleam in my eye, hustled over to Mom. Pinned the gash against the mirror hung above the baseboard (wondered how I could spot that gleam, didn’t’cha?).
Fortunately she wore our favorite dress – the fuchsia vinyl mini. I angled the baster past panties up into woozel. She writhed, squawked; fought like we’d never done this. Well, I guess usually we suck Himmler’s scum off God’s cheek. But any psychiatrist worth his lithium will tell you variety is the spice of rape. Especially when you enable your own mom to football. Anyway, the pig got skinned.
Hiked back down the mini. Called off the panzers. On my way to toss the baster in the sink, where Mommy-pants could at leisure Ajax the sucker, accidentally kicked Dad in the face.
I remembered Goebbels. A tear tickled my nose; dripped onto the lip. Tongued it in, thinking: Oh, noble suicide!
Joseph had been a sour old salt – Ahab of his own bull. Maybe this time the machine would bear fruit. Which hope helped my heart attack. Till, routed out of daydream, jammed thing down disposal. Activated blades. Made a riot like turkeys in the straw on fire locked up.
Mom and I slept hard that night. Dad – as was his habit – moth to the flame – charge of the light brigade – got up; puked; reported to work downtown beneath a mammoth hangover.
It had been an odd afternoon – curious take on losing the war. For breakfast Mom wore fatigues. Fed then ate me. Started with the ears. So I couldn’t hear.
Quietly, throughout the daisies, the party rose… again.
© Willie Smith
LIVE NUDE BOY
I steered into the night. Dropped dough. Entered a dive where ladies dance out their hearts for bucks. Cattle sat around tables nervous. I ordered a shot – the price dear as the space program.
Andromeda, Coma, Virgo clustered in galactic floor show. I bolted suds, eyes riveted to bobbling boobs. I wanted one to nail; hammer two at once; maybe screw ‘em all. Vodka uncurled my roll. Beer sucked up change.
Till empty glasses crashed aside. Spirits had invaded the flesh!
Up on stage I rocketed amidst the Jezebels. Slipped from my pressure suit to demonstrate alien boogie. The way lava shatters ice, the fluffs ogled my snot, while in a panic we watusied fireflies into tulips colorcoding info.
On the q.t. two split for the housedick. The other grabbed my luger bulged at the spotlight. We struggled nude – two statues knew not what doing. My orgones played 76 trombones.
The dick electrocuted my tongue with her blasted teeth. They closed the joint. I was given the truth. The audience cheated.
© Willie Smith
HYMN TO A HOMONYM
The harpies hunched in a circle. Harped on their subject, objecting to the golden sunset casting purples across their black coats. They used an ocher ocarina to scoop their plates full of overboiled okra. This not OK – the sweet potato should never become a ladle. Although the harpies had already upchucked in the soup; the setup thus adequately to begin with unbecoming.
Corinna, waiting for her portion, warbled a ditty of her own invention, beginning, “I live in a state of drug induced. A life to which I am wholly used. Always high, ever goosed, I am of my own ghost town the toast.”
Ellen, the lowliest, therefore entitled to first dibs, lifted her sallow face – after slurping okra off her plate – to croak, had anyone seen that tinhorn Jupiter of late?
Abigail, the middle gal, finished dolloping from the kettle suspended over the fire; handed the ocarina to Corinna, saying, “Last saw that horntoad conjunct with Mercury – crotchety faggots going at it like madhatters touched down on Mars.”
She drew from the plumage of her bodice a harp; plucked a few bass chords.
Ellen used her wings’ fingernails to mark time against a tooth.
By way of a bridge, Corinna blew on the yeoman ladle – in lieu of loading okra – a riff about when the sheriff was away the harpies would play; lyrics innate in the notes; everything that dusk in the clearing subtle as shit in a hat.
“Mercury:” Corinna dropped the ocarina into the okra, “there’s a joker you can’t trust any further than you could by his sandals toss his ass.”
“Just the other eon he layed that egg about the doorgunner. Seems a reporter asks, ‘How can you shoot women and children?’ The youth, busy boarding a chopper for a sortie over a paddy, snickers, ‘Easy – just don’t lead ‘em so much!’ Only Merc says ‘lead’ to rhyme with ‘led,’ and to this day the reporter walks away thinking the gunner means you don’t need to use as many slugs to slaughter women and children, when actually he intends the essence of deflection shooting – you don’t need to shoot so far ahead, because women and children can’t run as fast as the adult male targets; Mercury full of slick shit like that. His outside reflects his inside. Despite hyperdimensional palaver quick as lava out Krakatoa, he really has but one side – remember his toes aimed backward to fool the posse when he rustled Apollo’s cattle?”
“Correct,” agreed Abigail.
“Because it was Saturn’s turn to return,” Ellen spoke, clearing okra sliming her throat. “The lead reference clearly marking Mercury a Saturn follower.”
“Snappy as,” assented Abigail, “the brim on his hat.”
“Mercury or Saturn?” Corinna stared into the absenting fire.
“Both,” Ellen gaped at the evening star.
The whole peristaltic gestalt then wormed its own hole of ein klein bottle musik uncanned eerily from – as it bubbled to the kettle bottom – the sweet potato.
Off into Venus flew three vultures; faces anonymous under the silver sliver of a new moon. Stink they left. This their rite.
Mercury and the copper did, in their sordid union, whatever they did. And both it did make in the end sore.
© Willie Smith
MASKING TAPE
I was basking in the sun, multi-tasking on a cell phone, eyes lost in a laptop. I had quotes for the asking.
I was taping. Camcorder on a tripod at the edge of the pool. Glanced up periodically to catch sunglasses on the monitor. Content to be making history. Then got back to trading futures.
I was going for a swim inches before the end. Moments before apocalypse I would put down the phone, kill the computer, pull the cam, ditch the glasses; roll over on my face to follow the wisdom of the interest, live off the savings, cash my karma chips in.
But for now I was on a roll; on a curve accelerated at the wall; frozen in the fury of my gain. Full, fuller yet and full to popping with sheer volume.
I glanced down under the lenses of my aviator glasses at the trunks pinched against my gut. Cyan, canary, electric orange fractal streaming – but still insufficiently intense to parallel my youth. And because you are only as young as the buttons you push, I made a note on my palm to order online the loudest and the latest of the new and the hip.
Eyeing then the tan on my thighs, decided – between buying corn and selling hog – to get the same (need to squeeze in) size. I was in the end the look. Sink or swim all up to the weight of some dead god.
I was trading futures. I was making history. I was in the sun baking.
© Willie Smith
PILLS
Wake up, reach for the bottle, shake out black beauties, christmas trees, cartwheels. Half hour later, lighting a blank space, waltz into my clothes, whistling along the way to the bathroom. Then smile at the smile in the mirror. Shake off my clothes and sing into the shower.
At the desk, devise a jigsaw of fourteen sonnets, fourteen images each with fourteen interlocking facets. Type one line: THE HOUR ROARS LIKE RAIN ON THE THATCHED ROOF SHAKESPEARE SUICIDED HAMLET UNDER.
Go for a walk in the rain. Get wet, nervous and insane. Walk back home where it’s warm and dry and the room smells of me and my dirty laundry; garlic and burnt toast; and feel better, so have a valium and it’s dark and I haven’t eaten yet, so take a milltown for the appetite and go to town on a steak, eat half raw, then wolf a milkshake plus more valium.
The rest of the night the tv takes my place. And before the test-pattern fizzles, I finally gulp a handful of yellows, and a red, and go to bed and dream black.
© Willie Smith
I ALMOST BLEW MY JOB
I was going down on the elevator. I had just sucked up to the boss.
I was having coffee thoughts – to celebrate eluding the shaft. Then wrap my lips around a tobacco tube, before returning to the dungeon.
Afternoon coffee perk me up. Nicotine shave a few moments off the nick of time. Maybe blow a little smoke in some angel’s eye.
It was my ticket out if I got caught one more time unconscious in the booth. Maybe I’d best pop a couple uppers; suck a Coke down – settle the stomach.
I kept falling asleep at the switch because I stayed up late channel surfing…
The car thwarted gravity. Jounced. Stopped. The door cracked open.
Stomach finding its way back down out of my skull, I stepped off. Headed for the cafeteria. Gave my head over to walking the corridor, smelling the coffee, waking up to I didn’t have any change for the cigarette machine.
No line – too late for lunch, too soon for break. I secured the coffee, the Coke, the machine change. Slotted quarters, yanked lever, fetched fresh pack of Newports. Seated self in swamp of empty tables. Palmed two dexies into my pokerface.
I looked around for some sucker in which to void my heart. (In the Age of Information, emotion is openly discussed; for fear of being too deeply felt.)
No angel showed. My thoughts spun like bumpercars in a movie you could no more stop watching than a tarantula turn vegan.
Behind the vacant counter, behind the swingdoor set in the blank wall, saucers clattered, sliverware clashed, steam hissed inside the frantic dishroom. If I dozed again, the boss swore it meant my head. I gave him my word as an under-achiever Alert was now my middle name.
My heart pounded chemically. I tapped frigid fingers on the horny tabletop.
I could not wait to finish my smoke. Leave the grounds, the ice, the butt. Suck myself back into the elevator. Descend all the way down into the booth at the center of the subterranean parkinglot, where I worked but my soul did not.
So still I sat, drowned in cold sweat, taking my life… in stride.
Come and help me escape.
© Willie Smith
ANTONIO VIVALDI
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
ARCANGELO CORELLI
HENRY PURCELL
GIOVANNI BATTISTA PERGOLESI
GEORG PHILIPP TELEMANN
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART
LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
FRANZ SCHUBERT
GILGAMESH
THE BELL JAR by Sylvia Plath