Incident in a Parking Lot

           A little red pill sends thick drug commands to lodge in my fore-

arms, the street-pressed PCP we came by dishonestly first blowing up

on me while I’m out walking . . .

           And my arms have thought waves coming off them, my pelvis

in forward tilt wound by cables of force proper that hold me in a new

place where I fit snugly: the whole universe. Look at these new greens

of spring under the streetlights!

           We took in a couple of midnight shows, werewolf movies of the

time, thusly bent, my friend’s voice booming in the darkened theater, “I

SUGGEST YOU TAKE THIS OTHER HALF,” as he drops something small

into my upraised palm—why, it’s a little pill, a half-pill, a pill part. I should

do as instructed.

           These movies are dull stuff, nothing happening on the screen, tiny

like television, but the theater bathroom is huge, irresistibly yellow, the

urinals something from the future, the future of urination to enjoy now,

really let go! Future now, then slowly, look how slowly I am walking.

           The film ends? We attempt to leave, but a very big dog is circling

our Beetle in the parking lot, the only car left, the dog is as big as the car

itself and we cannot approach the car because we’re very high and afraid

the animal is some were-beast loosed from the film, come to kill us

           for guzzling beer smuggled into the theater, for dropping street-

pressed shit, for leading dissolute lives, for not paying attention to The

Howling right in front of us, or American Werewolf in London.

           I got lost in the endless yellow bathroom, I was flat up against the

pons asinorum of my hypertrophic love, aroar atilt and aclutter, I plead

the discombobulation endemic to daily minor turpitude, I haven’t eaten

anything since yesterday, we weren’t trying to ignore you.