Leaving Molars Scattered on the Asphalt
January 5, 2009
I can see the fan spinning in the lens of your sunglasses. It blends your brain matter into a slippery smoothie. I can see the fan spinning in the window depicting Rampart Street. It gouges holes in passing driver’s windows, stabs eyeballs, severs jaws, leaves molars scattered on the asphalt to puncture hot rubber tires. Soon the free-flowing traffic will be a ball of blood-colored tin foil. I see the fan spinning in the walls of a bar across the street. It will saw the balcony’s support beams to slivers. The sparkly people will come crashing down in a jumble of sprained ankles and broken spike heels. They will untangle themselves, stand up straight, and complain about being sticky from spilled champagne. I can see the fan spinning in a scene of a funeral on television. It shreds a coffin, decapitates the pal-bearers. Splintered bones fly in all directions, pierce calf muscles and the tires of the hearst. I see the fan’s shadow spinning on the yellow ceiling. It stirs up the smell of detergent and fabric softeners. It purees the greasy hair of a fat woman playing pinball. It shorts out the star atop the Christmas tree which still adorns the corner after the holiday has come and gone and caused its proper amount of destruction. The shadow of the fan hovers over the jolly lawn chairs and summer paint of the entire laundromat. It spins. It spins all over the Clothes Spin.
