One Version

The morning starts, always and forever, like this: Rising from a sheetless bed, covered in bunches of shirts and socks, stepping over strewn unconscious bodies and through a steamy, human smell. No one who lives here really lives here. The kitchen scum is eating every inch of counter surface, and the fruit flies thrive enough to have a burgeoning middle class. Towers of wine and whiskey bottles line the counter walls, crumbs belched from the toaster are grit between my toes. My one respite, a stainless steel holy grail--metaphorical, very physical--a screw-together stovetop espresso machine is hidden in a cupboard meant for stencils, rope and extension cord. It is the only article in the house that is both cleaned and polished regularly. I step up on my toes, I reach, I grab it. From another drawer containing a forgotten mini-cassette answering machine I produce a pound of coffee and a grinder. The beans are sent, whirring around with the edges of the turbine, chewed to pieces as they spin. The first metallic, drilling sounds of the morning reach the--now groaning--living dead, scattered over couches and sleeping bags throughout the house's first floor. Bodies shift and shiver, pillows are clung to in defense, the lolling, muggy quiet begins again as my mechanical work is finished. The finely ground substance is funneled into the small chamber, the end of a bottle of water dribbles into the bottom of the pot, just enough. I can see my reflection; baloonish, bent, on the shiny round surface of the chalice as I screw together its pieces until they click. I place it neatly on the stove, turn the gas to light, and nothing happens.


RJ's new book "Deathcamp" is out. The party at family was a blast. You should buy a copy now it's beautiful.

jams