And of course a guy like Job dreams an awful lot. I mean something had to be going on in the freak’s mind now, right? Something had to be pushing those gears, jumping on those levers, veritably humping those big round red buttons. Something had to be pulling at the roots of his psyche, perhaps a deep wound suffered at the factory precise hands of a modern, or advanced, or enlightened, or progressed, or advantaged, or overabundant, or technologically inclined, or a, or the, or that, or this, culture. Instinctual drives rubbing rudely up against programmed transferred rules, taboos, unnatural bathing habits? Artistic genius blotched ruinously rapid by structural rigidity smacking its bitch up? A fatal dive into Houdini escape fruits like heroin, cocaine, marijuana, or television and food? The blundering sexual robbery of a madcap uncle, neighbor, or parent? Parents tragically stolen by freak accident in train crashing into fish market on Polynesian island mysteriously floated serenely around and about Rhode Island? Fleeing foreign spy killers or enemy alien car salesmen, Chinese revolutionary royalists and the Russian KKK? Completely bored out of his fucking mind? Couldn’t wet his willy in the woman he wanted such wetness from, due to the various the family, the country, the other guy, the other girl, the other and dangling genitalia surprisingly hanging next to that which he believed to be the harbinger of such desired wetness willy-nilly? Shoes too tight? Deeply offended at the sodomizing of innocent otters with long red lipstick dispensers, while sucking on a pair of Nikes with a new dye? Deeply in love with god and guns and hotdogs and his mother?
So at first was the sensation of the bodily need to urinate. That was first. He was hanging by a string from the tip of his penis, a taught yellow rope glistening up into a nicely backlit infinity. A spectacular swinging began, and he started to spin about in swirling circles, and this made him decidedly sick to his stomach. And then there was the furry pryingly invisibly prickling fibers of the nothingness of all the enveloping space which began to tickle him, poke him, scratch poems in his back; scratched, ‘this… nutter… nun…. for…and.for’. All random letters really being random consonants and random vowels and random weavings of the interplay of countless infinite cilia with little sharp bristling points. Everything slowed down some then, the bright yellow rope dissolving from view among the black smothering car wash brushes of infinity. A warm yellow glow began to fill the space around him as he realized the yellow cord had snapped in umbilical eagerness. He did not fall but was held suspended in the middle of the nowhere nothing by the quickly condensing push of the blackness.
Something about spoons, somebody was singing about fucking the pain away, some Irish gobbledygook thrumming in the distance, he seemed to be inhaling a smoke that tasted of humiliation, of not enough numbers. Of not enough strength, of not enough thinness, overwhelming lethargy, spine curling into old wrinkled mush, food taking on the taste of metal, everyone would be wearing white and sky blue.
The gently cracking sun peeked through the boughs green and dripping with a light drizzle. Job finished the hike to the small field. Under the gentle rain he buried his tongue a few inches under and tasted the earth. It curled around his mouth, acidic and all-powerful juice, spiked with green roots of that which dared to move and render. Job felt an intense boredom the likes of which he had never experienced before. It humbled him. It made him small, and he let tears drop in a death freeze in tender syncopation with the gray drops floating down about him.
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