Sunday, May 5, 2013
The Only Thing Left
While I munch on psychedelic fungus, he dreams of his penis. Disembodied, giant as Godzilla, it tears through town, destroying women's bodies. I accuse him of being a tease, and he jumps like a short-armed T-Rex from behind the couch, trying to frighten me.
Instead, I break into an earthquake of laughter, and tears gush from my eyes. So wet they feel, wet and warm. I am standing under a shower head, a waterfall.
I move to the kitchen to get some orange juice, and suddenly the living room seems so small and far away, a doll house made of tiny wooden pieces. I can reach out and rearrange the furniture in seconds using only two fingers. The cool orange liquid enters my throat, a tart and tangy explosion.
I return to the now-massive couch as the television unfolds, a pop-up book with 3D cut-out characters expanding into the space around me. I am in the same room, watching from just feet away. They are talking to me.
And I laugh, warm and wet again, swimming in a fountain of tears. And I grip my glass, the only thing left that is real.