wet bayou
Arthur P. Denton
the situation is dire, but not dire enough to warrant any deep anxiety from either party
she’s preparing herself for the routine trip out of town, closing up the atelier, double checking the padlock on the ornate iron gate to the alley behind Rue Camille Claudel
she fingers a handwritten note from him she keeps in the pocket of her iron-red romper
the sun above this nearly ancient part of Gulf Coast Civilization forgives nothing this time of year
a pack of smokes is the last thing she procures before leaving the city behind her heading east on a little known county highway
—heeya’s da wada—feel’i—issa wet?—yessa da gaytas heeya
he could’ve gone off the reservation this time, just like the time before and before that
however, as absurd as it sounds, there is the actual facticity of man-eating lizards
he chains himself back onto the cot around noon because he knows by the moon last night that
she’s arriving today, and he’s not ready to give up on the mission
his only extant wish, that he could completely lose himself out of time and space, to exist strictly
as a function—less even than an object—of her libido
that these four strange walls she found him, sturdy enough, precisely because of the confinement,
would happen, in the Kaprow sense of the word
that somehow, by a great divine mercy, he could pass unconsciously into The Void without going
through the preliminary awareness of it
if only, somehow, he could cede the territory of the narrative
he could’ve gone off the reservation this time, just like the time before and before that
however, as absurd as it sounds, there is the actual facticity of man-eating lizards
he chains himself back onto the cot around noon because he knows by the moon last night that
she’s arriving today, and he’s not ready to give up on the mission
his only extant wish, that he could completely lose himself out of time and space, to exist strictly
as a function—less even than an object—of her libido
that these four strange walls she found him, sturdy enough, precisely because of the confinement,
would happen, in the Kaprow sense of the word
that somehow, by a great divine mercy, he could pass unconsciously into The Void without going
through the preliminary awareness of it
if only, somehow, he could cede the territory of the narrative
Walter (disambiguation) is the closest thing to a local where she pulls off the road into the
landscape
he’s completely fine with her leaving the car and borrowing the outboard
she suspects Walter would be completely fine with anything that put she and he in relation to one
another however oblique or distant
she knows that Walter knows she’s at the top-tier of fuckablity, and incredibly composed for her age—a seventeen that betrays the more fundamental reality of a mature woman at the peak of her command who might as well be a CFO or some other corporate whatsit with the mass of dick she is able to swing around
which is all too easy to be unidimensional about, so one might also add that she is an avid collector of personal correspondences of the deceased, which she aquires at estate sales to take home and transform into an ever evolving, kaleidoscopic archive of language from beyond the grave
as such conferring a certain set of bona fides as to her mission beyond eating men
while keeping her cousin in a shack in the swamp kind of fits into both ends of that spectrum, though not so nicely because as far as the violence, she does only what he absolutely insists and then reluctantly, and in terms of the conservationism he couldn’t really be categorized into any of the life death categories
(which might also be the point of Derrida’s seminar on the subject), he say
she pushes the shallow vessel into the brown water and skims off in a specific directionhe doesn’t hear the small motor sputter to a stop outside on the shore of his tiny island
but why?
which mushrooms into larger questions about the status of his body as such—the pure intensities
how, for example, has the ear folded into the neck
shoulder blades and ribs that have broken through nonentity skin
the teeth conversely iridescent due perhaps to designated non-operation
the shakey door opens with a crack
cuz?
the flesh swells in her chest the moment daylight from the doorway falls on her lover in his cot
the subtle dilation of her areolas is perceptible because she is extraordinarily at home in her body, and she has been here before
cuz
dear, he rolls over and sits up in one movement, chains chattering
she quickly kneels next to the cot between his legs and says, kiss me you freak
saliva travels in two directions
and by the course of several maneuvers he strips her of her romper without interrupting their lip
to lip engagement
to lip engagement
she has little work to do to his scant, next to nothing, linen covering
the grey dust on the ground looks up across a chasm in the type of Sheol
dip your finger, O Lazerus, that I might wet my lips, I pray
why do you keep coming out here
that was the agreement, wasn’t it
yes, but don’t you understand that I’m trying to get lost—you coming out here only makes that
harder
harder
a fine thank you, fuck you are so dim
don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for the attention, but—
you are anything but grateful
I mean, I’m grateful that you still love me enough to—
I don’t want to argue, just forget it
she presses the wrinkles out of the pant leg against her right thigh
are you still boycotting birthdays
I don’t know, why
it’s today
oh, twenty-nine
thirty
already?
well, clearly this is going nowhere… whatever, she swats at a giant flying demon circling her
head
I brought you a gift because I do still love you, though that is getting more and more pointless
a mosquito net?
ha, no, it’s great-grandfather’s psalter, I figured with your holy holy and all that…
that they brought over from—
we know the story, yes—can you still use it in French
I’ve got plenty of time to try
I love that for you
Pop Pop gets a Grisham?
no, I’m out of here, and stop faking it with those chains, it’s completely unnecessary
I love you so much
then stop this little dying game you’re up to, frankly it’s disgusting
I love you
goodbye
upon return to the city she reads again the note in her pocket, this time with much less enthusiasm:
Dear,
It is my great pleasure to imagine that this brief note to you will be the only thing that remains after I am gone at the denouement of our plot. Existing in the cacophonous chorus of dead saints and sinners you have curated in your youth. This, of course, is our one chance at necrophilia.
I had reviewed the stars the night before you were born. Your mother and mine studied also, pronouncing their prophecy to themselves and the other women they were celebrating with. The propitious event took place behind grandfather’s back, his daughters reluctant to reveal to him too much of their anti-institutional intentions, which were critical for how they wanted to start you on the road to the Ubermensch.
My body had just begun to change, finding in fact the first hair in my groin that week. I was afraid, but being admitted to the delivery, I was disabused of my naive illusions about ‘the good life’. No boy could have maintained those high misconceptions in the face of such an event. The matriarchy had firmly established itself with a claim to autonomy if only for a moment in that specific uncultivated space just north of the old Huguenot Manor on the outskirts of the city. Eccentricity was the defining characteristic.
I have yet to understand the call to live in the space outside of the sphere of subjectivity, much better it would be to make home in the interior, the possibility of which was closed to me once and for all the night I saw you exit the corridor of your mother. I suppose I owe you a thank you.
I have wanted only one thing from you since then. The sex has been tremendous, but not it. I hope to name it for you before the end, but have found myself incapable yet. Do not wait.
Do not wait.
Yours,
her view of Rue Camille Claudel from the second story bay window is quiet
she opens a cold bottle of txakolina from Basque Country, which she has shipped here by the case
she is somehow rich though not so much as to be without a mild level of concern for worldly comfort, but she does not work a day job
the bust she is currently casting looks more gargoyle than human
an antique Model T is putzing its way down the road towing a decadent multicolor buggy where two middle-aged women sit tangled in an erotic embrace that reminds her of how young she actually is
how dare he steal that from her
that shiesty bloodsucking worm
in reflection from the corner of the cot, he sits bent over his foot, an exact replica of Lo Spinario
the state of affairs seems impenetrable to his gaze no matter how or where he looks
perhaps she is right, that this exercise is a fool’s errand
but how could he ever re-enter the world and its cares
this brand of minimalism is totalizing and impervious to any kind of effort towards a summary
or, to say it again: it would be impossible for him to drive himself forward from here, out of this infertile cocoon interior, witness to a dialectic of self-help
THERE IS NO SYNTHESIS, despite the (now old) trend of insisting that there is
more concretely, the pale Spanish moss thriving on the trees outside certainly fell off the beard of Father Time’s chin
but he doubts that God speaks in Spanish—
Latin, perhaps, but not Spanish
and he cannot move
the state of affairs seems impenetrable to his gaze no matter how or where he looks
perhaps she is right, that this exercise is a fool’s errand
but how could he ever re-enter the world and its cares
this brand of minimalism is totalizing and impervious to any kind of effort towards a summary
or, to say it again: it would be impossible for him to drive himself forward from here, out of this infertile cocoon interior, witness to a dialectic of self-help
THERE IS NO SYNTHESIS, despite the (now old) trend of insisting that there is
more concretely, the pale Spanish moss thriving on the trees outside certainly fell off the beard of Father Time’s chin
but he doubts that God speaks in Spanish—
Latin, perhaps, but not Spanish
and he cannot move
