Igor

Igor had given dad a blunt figure saw, and dad was now working at the chimney with it.
The sound was quite unbearable, but at least, dad wasnt hacking his little ax into the roof now. Mom was semi-awake.

Igor went into the cellar and got out some plum-wine to put mom back to sleep. As the purple was leaking from the corners of her mouth and he dabbed it with her undershirt, he heard dad call out on the roof, it must be an airplane he saw overhead. “cum get me, ya thugs! Ya no good sons of bitches!”

Igor went back to bed.

And he dreamed.

And he dreamed of meaningless people to him, :Jacob, Fixed Cross, woke up trying to think who these may be. They were the earlier literati, the old lady hissed, feigning sleep, as she, terrified of her son, listened intently to the do about son top of the roof. And Igor saw, suddenly a black crow alight into the powdery white snow–fall.

He knew soon, he could, into the white blue yonder, that he will fly, and merge with all sympathetic souls, alive and frozen into their own sense.

Igor now dreamed of a beggar in threads who came to him with a golden cup and asked him to piss in it. It was a weird dream to be honest.
He woke up and a big Hawaiian girl with an even bigger ass was massaging him like she was kneading dough. Upstairs the squee squaa-ing had stopped, and instead there was a snoring.
Igot grabbed the girl by her hair and pulled her away. Enough! He went to the bathroom and stared in the mirror, wanting to see what was behind it. He hoped to see back into his dream, where the beggard was with the golden cup, and then he pissed in the sink.

Now Igor bought bread on the train. He was a commuter. He d gotten a job interview across state lines with his uncle. His uncle who fixed pipes.

The man next to Igor had a cigarette in his mouth which was unlit. He chewed on it a bit and it made Igor nervous, hungry and craving a smoke. It was a long ride and nothing much went on outside.

So Igor got up from his seat and strolled around the compartment and then left the wagon. The sound in the vault between the wagons was thunderous and monotonous. Igor sat down on the metal plates and slept.

Igor ate 4 eggs. He poured cream in his coffee and kept pouring, and pouring, the package must be empty by now, the cup is already overflowing… he cant stop… cream flows onto the table, drips on the floor, seven waitresses on their knees now appear, mopping up the sticky stuff with their blond buns, bums in the air, Igor keeps pouring and pouring… the coffee wont taste so good now… he wakes up, hungry for some eggs.

He steps outside in his shorts, it is hot and clammy, the sun has been out for hours, the birds already sound tired. He steps into the inflatable pool and enjoys the cool water touching his ankles. His appetite for eggs disappears, and the day seems to dissolve into an old dream he never had. Black is all he sees.

Sounds come out of the Earth.
He wakes up again, now craving oranges.

Well he said its just a word. “Rape”. Dont be so glum.
That was inappropriate apparently, the girl wept.
Igor could never figure them out, women. Now they wish for the worst, then they expect you give them the best…
ah hell, he’ll just do whatever the fuck he’ll feel like at any given instant.
That was Igor, ordering Teryaki.

Igor hears the train depart and remembers that in the old songs that sound is sad. He looks at the girl and wonders if her sadness is about going or coming or both.

Igor is sad. He is in Taipei. With his wife. She is as tangled as he is.tey to focus. Who is he, thinking of himself
In the airline coming in he saw a film called Split, about a guy with multiple personality, who connects musically with a woman who was abused possibly raped. The film was by Shamalayan, the guru filmmaker whose forte is mysticism.
Igor thinks of all those who don’t know who they are, and thinks perhaps they are blessed. He thinks of a continuity, a sudden urge overtaking him about the woman coming and going, from up and down. Eating teriyaki.

Then what? But no Igor thinks , Frankwi back in ol’ sunny California, and Stein, they must be having a ball, and she is sitting there looking across not vacuous, pointing to a marathon here, and Igor thinks to himself of all his containment of his parts, back when he suffered with his penile wood not going down, and then the gurls all thinkin’, it was for them.

Igor wakes up. Had another dream of coffee and cream. Oh its not… is he… awake… ahh no yes
whats it matter

Later, at breakfast, he is reminded. He winks at her, she seems to know.

Day and night blend together, have been for weeks. Igor pays no mind to the difference he once new.

Then he thinks perhaps there is no difference, only one of degrees of shade, the greyness off it all permeating background with fore, as if with the passage of time everything flattening out, pressed invariably by the gravity of time.
The cab driver on way to the wharf told a story of a fare he has only a week ago, this woman holding a very shaken baby, crying loud, very upset. He thought she may even not be the natural mother because she did not try to comfort it, and she looked suspiciously around seeming disheveled and frightened.

The next day, the driver read in the paper that a little two year old baby was de-gutted, her empty carcass found thrown by the wayside, her internal organs probably sold.

He should have done something , he confessed, he has a bad feeling.

A day in the life.

Who would do something like that, Igor thought, and grinned.

He was planning to pay an old friend in a nearby town a visit, and do some more gutting.

Igor took the train to Obronko, the city of his friend. He stopped on the way from the station to the hospital where the guy worked as a guard, to get some gutting knives. Oh it was a glorious day in Obronko.

Igor stopped for some doughnuts. They werent very good but he didnt mind.
He was about to be served… something very good indeed.

The friends name was Constantine, after the Christian emperor. He wasnt much of a Christian, or an Emperor for that matter - but he had good liquor. He also had a little son he didnt take care of but loved anyway. Igor wondered if the kid were alright, if he wasnt sick or anything, or god forbid, was harvested, like was happening more and more in Obronko.

Anyway, he was sure the kid would be fine. He shouldnt think so darkly.

He arrived in his friends street.

Turns out his friend wasnt home.
Probably for the best.
They werent that goodly friends anyhow.

Igor forgot all about the thing and got on a commuter train which then blew up but was recovered from the past by Matt Damon.

Obronko was a little town with one lonely skyscraper embarrassingly erect toward a threatening sky foreboding but full of some kind of hopeful scent. Constantine and Igor hand in hand wir spacierengang toward the little square embellished by Igor’s family crest, he was home now, and tomorrow they are off on a business venture, into a backwoods town even smaller then this one minus one erect skyscraper.

A German fellow had a circus type vaudeville there, and ha screamed with a sigh that the gurls are beautiful there, and that sailors song lonely under the sheltering sky could be heard.

Meanwhile the whereabouts of Constantine’s little boy remains a mystery, never not with standing what the taxi driver so eloquently narrated about the little baby girl’s unfortunate end.

Igor did not elaborate further then The Castle grounds permitted for there existed a deliberate and formeciiusly designed set of barbed wires and other security measures to trespass info in and out the less then porous wall designed to keep desirable and the unwanted separate.

The bells could be heard rolling in the far hills now she the variable green shades were beginning to be saturate with shades of black and grey.

And always remember who you are the he old harangue tolled in Igor’s mind as he remembered Thomas Wolf paraphrased by his late aunt as she warned you can’t go back home again, at a time in his younger days when such Heraclitus type foundering did not yet enter his cranium.

Colonialism is resplendent here in this little town with poor little beggar boys for whom the heart nearly extinguishes, yet, can not for resins they do not comprehend.

Cursed are the cruel dictators sitting pretty in the trappings of enchanted cruelty, the democracy came too suddenly, cursed education inconvenienced the renaissance princes of the church who saw it coming, but enshrined in mystical hocus pocus, defended themselves cleverly, which poor m. Antoinette could not. Blessed those huge-a-nots. The results are overcoming Europe in a big way, their guilty conscience not absolved by the Crusades. The last children’s crusade reminiscent to the children thrown to the battle field by a.Hitler, when all the young men were only lines of lament ,whrithes of songs thrown as flowers unto unsung graves.

In the end he met Constantine, the next week. The man was accompanied by his boy. Igor felt a pang of relief. He had had bad dreams, and hasn’t been able to determine with certainty what was just synapses firing, and what was… well, also synapses firing, but less randomly so.

He bought the boy a salted herring. It was just a thing Igor tended to give people. He didn’t know any better.

Well, Igor thought. Im hungry. And not for just food.
As a kid, with tea-time, he would crave the moon.
So smooth, such a perfect cookie.

Now, he went out in the woods and ate some roots, and then went into the barn and got his shotgun.

Crackling underwood, ah delicious feeling
Igor aims his barrel at nothing, the dark.

not much game here but you never know
a rabbit might do

SLAM
he cracks open a round at a first glimmer of a shadow.
It was just a bird. Or he just missed.