COPYRIGHT 2016 TALKING BOOKSITE DESIGN BY THE YONDERDAY FAMILY

On Mark Binelli’s Forthcoming Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ All-Time Greatest Hits or Notes toward the Tag Team Exploitation of a Life – Pt. 1

Sperm ricochet guaranteed to pale its purse, vile keepsake authorizing likenesses till handkerchiefs everywhere stood tall in their verse, spawned under court order direct from Satan’s lap, knotting the state-issued diaper of his contraband, dripping stegosaurus enemas that could donate rock n’ roll back to water heads nationwide, white boys already climbing down their itty bitty foreskins with merchandise spilled on keyboard after keyboard, Jalacy slid facedown from birth bruise to the gobbled ass where he found a name. Wives of men his mother stole threw bricks at him in utero. Billed against existence, he fanged lasagna out her each nipple. Of course some minstrelsy docked his tail with a first draft life they barely let him live. Not enough light hit his body so that he could hate it. Another blackface chore of lies the size of hospitals. No one worthwhile would scream his joke into a biography. Whoever banned him off lactate was circling the stars for revenge.

He crawled across the keys of a piano before any first steps brought travel to his sin. It was an era of families way livelier in their understanding waste. One of his moms stuck a feather in her hair and taught him about hate. It took a witch to wean him. Communally docked post-genocide with excess laundry, her deep county wail cured motherfuckers of Ohio commorancy. Far away bus stop state of Anglos not even a half-heard detergent. Such impish dick no wonder their women shouldn’t be whistled at. No apology was far enough spat. He tolerated a life next to nothing but neighbors. Household hexes were customized so girls would decant for his doctor game since grade zero. His like seemed gathered by this country’s prison spotlights. But he could toot radioactively, feinting humid amid the ghetto on loan.

He was inspired to put a nail in his tonsils to stir the proud from comfort. Instruments tickled the satanic entity of his volume. Hell had his baritone on testicular layaway. He caterwauled to upturn pigtails. Windows on the block slammed shut when he practiced. A fractional degree of sister showed him the possible crone they came from’s grave. Lodging his finger in her, she cursed the dirt, a confluence of whispers squatting inclusive with terrain. He proved how we’re all just props in our background’s netting. They sent him to a fancy school for music where he memorized the tempo of fuck you and joined the army instead. Too little risk being chased by portly whites back home. Might as well stick a system behind the face.

Think Wizard of Oz, boy, the jumpmaster said. He was thrown cargo to battlefield. The paper doll chain of ofay that went first were shot full of holes and pissing down the tops of their chutes. Can’t outrun your nutrients, he thought. I’m Othello and they’re just the intermission. But his smile grew an interior the closer the ground heaved its amputees at him. Special Forces had billed him across Europe as troop entertainment. Then his mustache came in and met the tap dance inside his shorts. Luckily, his own blood was tasty from a young age and this collation would gain him the unresentful allowance of a kill. He already had the scars to acquire status in heaven. No other blacks wanted him near a foxhole. He hopped in singing. You were a bedpan commando if you flinched over air raids. The eggs they laid were the only verb now. It was the aboriginal training everyone’s saliva already put him through and no amount of kept lawns could aid palefaces with what they still cared to lose. The drop zone stayed in his chords. The rest came wearing chalk. Combat sped up puberty. He flayed his age off clocks. Time bore its chancres when he aimed a gun.

Base kept the camp lights blaring twenty-four seven so Saipei could run away captured from what he was back there doing to them. In the gaps between ammo, he bred enjoyments almost as fey. The caves were burning snugly beneath his boots. Broadcasts honked about town favoring glory over retreat till everybody met their confetti on the Pacific scree. The province fit through a straw with peristaltic fellowship, choking up pink tessellations of salt. A radio upsurge explained the neighborhood was ending, supplies weren’t inbound, ration which fingernail to swallow, hilarity of propaganda like insects training in their tubes. K-knifed convexities, each formerly a self, scabbed back into the so-called earth, rigor mortis shaped dew scorecard for some fat and giggling deity, rat nests stuck dry-suckling between ribs. Jalacy strode these romances, quelling company crew, mashing their race into grasses just as dead. There was no breeze to vomit on. He had part of an opera taped to his helmet. Best sheet music for torture, registering blood another humped pastel in the too calm air where collective shrieks were hung.

Vying with potential banzai before the afternoon approached, hovering above her cousins’ granite scramble, the girl stared through Jalacy better than plenty and he led her off the peak to an inimically safer footing. Someone shimmied behind him and he fired at the palms before a slur could take place. He was tired of killing people beforehand. The empire had claimed their superiors and none remembered consenting to the mulatto expanse. He’d be subjected to giggles if an order wasn’t physically enforced. Being in Eden permitted every annoying mania. No situation had a leader pinned to it. Just the couple buffoons who stumbled ahead quicker. Same directionless war the doctor visited on his bottom. Cool, he insisted. An excuse to rip the bars from his shoulder. Even at fifteen, Jalacy hauled too much cock for the tropical theater. A private tried to translate ten inches into celestial or she might need crutches. They took her weepy statement and camped out, too tired for anything but jokes about running a train. A thousand cadavers posed below them in the sand.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sean Kilpatrick, raised in Detroit, does monthly movie reviews for Hobart Literary Journal. Other writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Nerve, New York Tyrant, Boston Review, Fence, Sleepingfish, Fanzine, Vice, evergreen review, Whiskey Island, and Bomb. His novella Sucker June, was released by Lazy Fascist Press. Check out his tumblr.

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