Day 7: Tumbling blocks and Tetris toxins..

 

Christened the seventh calendar square of Succulent Sobriety II with a 24 hour water fast, drinking distilled water from a plastic 2-liter carafe, swilling generous liquid slurps of oxygen with a double-shot of hydrogen into the oval of my lips, flooding the interior terminal of my flesh with the aquatic blueprint indispensable for life. Even when I was drinking 15 beers a day (water)  and  burning through coffee pots (water, water) if you could locate a zipper beneath the week old stubble of my chin, reel it south, down my neck and the bulb of my Adam’s apple, unzipping the train-track zipper past my nipples, through the Indian burial mound that is my soon-to-be-weathered beer gut,  around the inverted elevator button of my naval, south still, around the tip of my cock, peeling  my scrotum apart like arid thanksgiving gourds, watching my body topple into two disparate heaps of crinkled pigment, leaking on the top of both respective knee caps like hurricane battered umbrellas.

If you would do all that and then, with a bar room cue stick prod at the corporeal remnants of my being, jabbing at my beer pong eyes. My liver, a russet brick drowned in a vat of Guinness, past the fisting turnips of my kidneys. The splattered sagebrush of my lower intestines. The sanguinary clack and scattered twigs of bones you would never surmise that are located inside me lively activated right now as I am typing this sentence.

 If you would the shovel my bodily dregs into a reusable earth-friendly HYVEE bag, take the HYVEE bag into the Peoria Agricultural lab on University and perform a chemical assessment you would readily discern that (duh, as we all know) the bulk of what  is inside of me, between 69-70 percent, is water. That the ruffled cerebral helmet of my brain contains 70% water. That the tarred-miniature ballet slippers of my lungs are 90%  water and that my blood, spiraled in post-unzipped raspberry furls rounds off to about 83%.   


                               

So I’ve been drowning the internal terminals of my nerve-rattled abode with buckets of water, replacing the vital nectar of what is inside of me with the one element essential to what has thus far been cosmologically constituted to be the lego block of life. Feeling the toxins thrust out of my body as I stand over the urinal, clutching my gender like a videogame joystick that, because the neighbor down the street spilled capri Sun on it, is stuck and won’t go all the way to the left or to the right (so you can’t enter the contra code if you want to have infinite lives).  When the toxins egress my body I picture them configured like microscopic tetris blocks. Some are shaped like rhombuses or trapzoids. Parachuting pentagons, hang-gliding fractals all exiting the bin of my bladder in sky-diving leap, in a beam of urine, the writer, above, giving teh gender-defining know of his anatomy and earnest shake, before zipping himself back together, back to the keyboard, back to the screen, back to another draught of water.

 

or, as Don Delillo (guised as Jack Gladney in WHITE NOISE) echoes, "Water. That's my beverage. A man can trust a glass of water." 


                                            


 Indeed you somehow can.