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Whose buttprint is in your panties?
Whose ass hit the grass?
Whose windmill broadcast the fentanyl?
Awakened some two hours before sunrise, with a headfull of thoughts, myself, arms flailing in vain to take hold of one of them, to grasp something and squeeze whatever syrup of truth out of it.
I was, peep peep, head up, mouth open like a baby bird, to catch the still-warm egg from the hen's butt, and hold it up like a jeweler's prized setting, a signature centerpiece of some kind of shadowbox science project, from baking soda volcanoes to relativity, to the larger philosophical questions.
Anse Bundren.
Got to stab him when he comes out of the bathroom, in his walmart undershirt and swim trunks, stab his life blood, perforate his internal quiddity, and the screaming baby they might take, leaving behind a dull peace, or keeping it here, birth mother and all, gumment money, state money, WICK money and all, some thousands for its care that we spend on DVD's and stuff, Ricky's beer and all, but he would be in the ICU having vivid nightmares about Jesus and the angels.
I could dress him down on a syndicated talk show, do lie detector tests about infidelities and beating the baby, all the while, I eat in the car, change clothes in gas station bathrooms, and sell pictures of my titties to strangers. You'd help, wouldn't you? That's what a good man would do, stand up like a man, and me hiding the blade next to the emergency brake and the jutting straight up seat belt clicker.
EBT and 480/month in ass picture money.
Stab him coming out of the bathroom, open the narrow rear entry and roll him into the tall weeds behind the house, the trailer, the 1964 pleasure palace God Knows What manufactured home where we make our home, kill his ass, and then sit in relative peace to the din of the baby's constant wailing.
Whose ass print is in your panties?
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