Start with a Question

He comes home and dry heaves constantly, coughs up sand and punches mirrors because they look at him funny.  He sticks his head in the washing machine and hits puree.  He says, it would be treason to not demand a revolution; the purported upholders of the constitution are abusing the privilege of state, and negating our ability to think for ourselves—the consumer welfare, worship cock and balls, and endless ass fucking.  We shit runny for days afterwards, because our minds can’t clench properly.  It takes time to sit and stare at a television and wish for a fourth meal, a hot griddle pancake and three cheesy update on the Ravens game.  He is soundless air, the tasteless odor of marble staircases in Saddam Hussein’s palaces; the perfume of belly dancers lingers in the hallway, the last filigreed normalcy—the gartered wage helmet.  When he fucks he likes a belt around his neck.  He tells me to pull it until he passes out, shudders on the bed and cums and smiles, satisfied at his ability to swallow the bitter remnants of red meat.  If it weren’t illegal, he would eat his own flesh and pluck his arteries like bass strings.  He is beautiful.  He is lost and remembered with the other realm of dark consciousness, a defeated path of reconnaissance, he prays for a renaissance all the while knowing his words are fruitless.  He dutifully carries canyons on his back, the sunken roof that holds water and drips into his eyes, blots out any question of why God allows this to exist—the moment he tries to resist is when he gets shot.