She ***** on a milkshake through a metal straw. Strawberry.
The place, Tom's on Western, is bare. Ash falls outside. It's
sticking to the glass windows. Glass and steel frames
and white paint and white chairs and ash outside.
A taxi cab goes up over the curb. A black woman in a headdress
gets out and tosses money, red money, blood money.
I'm here too sitting by the bathroom, noting the length
of Strawberry Milkshake's boy shorts. Is this objectification
or object reduction or reverse personification?
The siren in the distance winds down, sounds like it's melting.
Do sounds melt? She, Strawberry Milkshake, doesn't
seem bothered by what's going on outside. I want to sink
my teeth into her shoulder. Ash sticks to the glass, and a
kid, eight or nine, runs by, newspaper up over his head.
He's crying. I can see this, but I don't hear this. Water
starts leaking then pouring then falling in sheets. Ceiling
tile and insulation float at my feet. Strawberry Milkshake
pulls her wet hair back into a ponytail. I clear my throat.
She raises her *******. I walk over and tell her
there's this song she reminds me of. And a bomb hits just
down the street. There goes the glass, crashing all around
us, slicing past forearms and skipping through empty space.
The steel frames bend. She puts her hand to my face. My
face becomes her face, her hand my hand. She and I half-hum, half-sing
"Oh Destructo, you're so destructive. You're so destructive to me."