I cannot write petrol without thinking of you.
It is a favorite scent of mine
but it was a truth I nurtured in secret:
myself at petrol stations,
drunk on those rich fumes.
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On the speakers played Dwight Yoakam’s Purple Rain. A song for men. Chris and Peter hummed with pleasure, in harmony with cowboy music, with each other. Peter flipped over and arched his back like a bridge. A crossing. He turned his head, resting his cheek on the green felt and transforming it into something lovely and verdant.
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Inside an adult sex shop, far from the street entrance, a curtain made by strings of tiny metal beads separates the plastic-wrapped silicone and DVDs from a dark hallway lined with five booths on either side. In the back of the store, the booths are numbered, and each of the small square rooms has a hole cut into the center of the adjoining wall, creating an opening between the booths large enough for an exchange.
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The flat spin of the plane is in equilibrium. Like a pencil burst through its belly and the plane rotates flat on a vertical axis. Rudder useless. Airspeed and rotation stabilize within the spin.
12:06pm. Last transmission reported by the National Transportation Safety Board, NTSB. We have got some sort of malfunction going on here.
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Our best friend was wrapped like a handroll in her blanket, lying sideways. Her tousled black hair poked out on one end, and her thick calves came out of the other. The soles of her feet were dusty, her cheek, wet and shiny. Sprout’s eyes were two black saucers staring past us, as if we stood in the way of what she really expected.
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I create as I speak
but I don’t know the higher language
just a notion of the occult.
The secret knowledge is in the mistake.