in an immaculate arizona lavatory
he found a turquoise feather of
copper heritage. then he bursts forth
like a volcano from the earring section.
within the closed triangle of cash registers
the language is silence. someone, the template
of gorgeous, nearly runs us over with a mop.
we’ve been caught. necking in the bobble-heads
aisle. gorgeous has destroyed each compound
of heretofore perfection, made a jagged body
out of every impossible slat or chunk and, util-
izing what now unmistakably means eyes, leads
us to the lavatory that had served up that beautiful
odd piece of what we’d always called the knickknacks
of the great southwest. which had always been so easy
to find. once inside the squeaky clean bathroom, we
both give each other a silent look that says what the...
how did we miss the portal on the wall? as mind-
boggling as that was, we’d need never put words to
it or anything else ever again. we would never need to
scrunch up our faces and try to come up with the right
noises - in reasonable order - with which to ponder the
relationship between the two of us, or those between us,
singly and individually, and anything else we’d have said
exists. because we already knew where we were going.
the last few details were not really considered, but were
nonetheless experienced. the deity fills the urinal with
some – overflowing – lava. i can remember clutching my
phone in my hand, but leaving both deep in each pocket.
and then there was an explosion. we were desert-side
long enough to make out that it was happening some-
where near the silver dollar belt buckles. clean
restrooms are a way of life. where once we
proffered our bucks and displayed our ex-
pended garbage. i leaned down to snag a
striking anklet, a splendid find, from
the clean floor. our god’s mouth opens
huge and out comes an epiphany of
wildly searing pitch. all pitches. it
is a way of saying step through the
hole in the wall that swirls in all
colors down to a soupy darkness
like a saturday morning cartoon,
just on the other side of the
mop bucket. the water in the
bucket is clear. we step
into the dust, which
we can quickly
determine is
made of tiny
intricately woven
reticules. there’s
a lake the color
of a long-discon-
tinued crayon.
