Do Not Transport Firewood

Eric Duenez


The first thing I want in the morning is a red cup of
gasoline—the color of that child’s toy with the rings and
my nephew always tried to put the yellow one on first
so he gets some sort of hour glass figure with left over
pieces and you can’t have left over pieces in a hour glass
that’s somebody’s minutes (it’s waking up in the bathroom
and the mirror is all steamed but I don’t know how I got
there and someone’s in the shower and she has these Sharpie
marks all over her body like I was about to perform surgery,
but the marks aren’t numbered and I don’t have a knife and
I’m pretty sure I never went to medical school and my face
feels like it’s going to collapse, “Is this who we really are,
inside of these egg shell bodies?” I ask as I turn the water
off and the faucet is that old school rounded off cross type of
handle marked with an H—Holly, her name might be Holly, l
ike the carburetor, but she starts singing and I really hate her
voice and it reminds me that the floor is wet and there is
mildew in between the tile and I really have this compulsion to
brush my teeth but how can I be sure that toothbrush is mine
and it is yellow like the piece my nephew starts with so I rub the
bridge my nose and close my eyes and start counting)—I really
don’t care about the octane. I guess super would be fine or plus,
but for what I use it for just regular unleaded will work. I
pretend that it’s coffee and then spit it out and say, “Goddamn Flo,
this is some terrible fuckin’ coffee,” and then I throw it against
the wall and light a cigarette. Not to be cliché but I like the slow
arc, the high trajectory of my cigarette. They told me to quit
smoking so I have to throw it and it slows down like an hourglass
that has had an ass-load of extra sand shoved in it, forced in it.
The hourglass can’t say no. It’s in no position to make demands.
The fire is small and I piss on it. I mean to say I love my home.
I would piss on it to put the fire out. I would piss on it. I do. But
I still can’t figure out who is in the shower. I mean it would make
a difference if we were hard-boiled, but I feel all soft inside–
maybe with two yolks–and I’m afraid of leaking and if I could
see her face maybe it would make a difference. Maybe I’ve
never met her. Maybe this is her house and not mine. How
embarrassing would that be? Jesus Christ! My soul for a real
cup of coffee, too. And who pitched a tent there? Take it down.
Set up camp somewhere else. This will not be a vacation spot.