“The Jay”


would always
scratch her nose
in a very special, predictable
way – her mechanical fingers
last stripes of biological
features still noticeable
would reach right below
an inch or a half below
the blank reddening
the most repulsive
chrysalis imaginable
the most fucked-up sunlight
reflecting worm, an inch
or a half below the eye
of an alien and wicked apparatus

The apparatus
she bought
at the Aluminum Farm
the one to make
her brain salad swell
the one to make her
intelligently sexy
the one to make her
see the enemy

The apparatus
which was in reality
the most important little cog
of secret twilight
police conspiracy
of the never-comes-the-night
feeling, of the whisperless
sirens under sleepy
broken skylight
of the flying saucer 50’s paranoia
of the Russian soaring
under the stark, middle-of-July
star placenta

The one to which the AF’s
ads referred to as “tasty”
the one called “raw”
by its lucky users
the one that was
to “young, lonely women
with a lust for intellectual sorrow”

“All transmissions from
the Shadow Boys radio
translated to all world’s odd languages…”
were promised as well
all at the price of a cigarette box
all delivered
right to your front door
and as she tuned in
to the ever growing radiowave
chaos and the previously
chosen cheap audio book
her cunt tightened
and her teeth almost bit off her tongue
like she had tons of electric shock coming

She would listen to the tape
and the radio simultaneously
she would enjoy the recorded
weary voice which cracked
like an overplayed vinyl – the junky
remainder, the relict
of revolutionary times
the one that gave her this one of a kind orgasm
the one which exterminated silence
the one which made death
the voice of a man
who got too far out
to ever come back again

The tape proceeded to play
the green half of her
face would vomit
sitcoms throughout the day
while the right one, the palest
one you’ve seen in your life
would concentrate on
white powder lines
on the table
on rumba nights
at Old Dive’s Whorehouse
on seductive lines
she had to learn by heart
on last year’s memoirs
of a never-come-true Mexican journey
The Jay promised to happen

The Jay left her flat
the Jay took his Caddy
and off he went alone
the Jay was now presumably
dancing on top of some
Monte Alban sun-soaked temple
with the ghost of the bumblebee
god, with the ghosts of the Aztec
virgins, with the entire scum
brigade of Xibalba’s deepest gutters

The Jay would always leave last
the Jay was the Man
the Jay was never available
the Jay had no phone number
the Jay was so conspired
that even the most clever rats
didn’t know his whereabouts
and never shrieked
out a word

The Jay was the ultimate
well-conspired queer prince
the Jay was a monkey’s
searing asshole, the one that
would soon learn to communicate
with Calita in a series of love-confessing blurps

The Jay was the local
radio station’s horny DJ
on speed, the evergreen
spinning maniac
with voice as deep
as the famous throat
the one with the largest
ever dickscale

The Jay was a stiff baboon – always
ready for use and never a failure
the Jay was irrelevant now

Calita stopped scratching her nose
and decided to leave room
to leave the neighborhood
to leave town
to start the Buick
to eventually leave the planet
the planet left a lot to be desired
a lot to be broken
a lot to be eventually
buried or burnt

The planet was screaming
for absolute freedom
Calita would put on her blue
hosed panic and turn off
the brain radio chaos – the tape
still playing
the Jay still nonpresent
the nose still itching
and all things as fucked
up as usual
the planet as referred pain
still on tape
all recorded

Copyright © 2008 by A.J. Kaufmann. All rights reserved.