BODIES DOMES LIGHTS

Jordan Krall

Collapsing solar lodges in his lungs: they pop, then implode, then explode, and paint the black mist sky with pale dots. Roars of engines and the pitter-patter of miniscule experiments glistening in universal afterbirth of foreign galaxies.

His whole body is a black hole.

He stumbles through town, a beatnik sleazoid/paranoid/schizoid writer all mixed up on pills and other chemicals he found in the pocket of a thrift store army jacket. Notebooks full of abduction stories: in between the accounts there are blurry photographs of UFOs attached crudely with Scotch tape. In his head, he imagines red city walls and sparkling subatomic glamour. It points him in the direction of Newark. He fights the urge to buy a bottle of cheap vodka and a suit to be buried in. The thrift store had some cheap suits. Ugly and old, sure, but cheap.

He ribs sing like tuning forks. His organs pulsate and purge. His brain bubbles like melting cheese. He stumbles along the streets, spitting and babbling into the solar anus that has appeared in his soft white underbelly.

Those fucking things changed him. Those things made him into a wanderer and now he hasn’t got a home.

He looks up and thinks: there’s my home.

But the stars blink with obscenities. They want no part of him. Not anymore.

A silver disc appears near the moon. It scraps the lunar surface and spreads dust into the air. He chokes. He feels it all and knows it’s worse than the pills and the chemicals and the long nights of shooting up and fucking off.

The lunar dust fills his lungs and recharges the microscopic battery. His whole body is ultra-alive with pain and newborn nerve endings.

He explodes into pieces of flesh/metal/celestial junk. His last remaining bits of consciousness hope his remains will be ingested by all his fellow beatnik sleazoid/paranoid/schizoid writers.

He wants to give a good trip. He wants to be forever.

At least the pain is over.