Helene would rather a river and nouns, a jungle snowstorm of yellow butterflies, a sun-baked stone, than nine hundred and twenty dollars, amphetamine, a string of pearls. What else is new?
A dime in a slot, two places at once, time zones. No not that, but, millions and millions do, put and get and learn, and everything is the same as before, and no one would want to know that, she thought, Helene always thinking, seizing, so painfully conscious not to love so thoroughly in advance.
And she did, does, always will come—moving, speaking—like liquid dust or one of those gray watercolor washes, something absolutely like that, that the city comes up with in fall, that never really goes away, but isn’t familiar either, and she also wasn’t.
Helene wasn’t there to explain what you wanted explained. She was there and explained something else, and that’s to say Helene is a thrill.
Like when the motor starts for the first time and there’s that sound (that time that sound is not time), but a line, a road bending, like what happens with a wiggling pencil and to your life, and then just you. You, faster than light traveling backward, if light would. And life and you aren’t but Cole, or any male for that matter, will look at the empty passenger seat and feel—feel this power, this need—to step on the gas, thinking Please be there Helene.
Helene, moving, speaking, coming so soon, and Cole’s hard prick—throbbing, hammering—like rain on roof, relief, or something absolutely like the opposite, like not anticipating a storm, or a choice, like just letting whatever that’s being be and whatever that will have came come, like that relief—absolutely that feeling, that power—that need for expansion, like letting a prick go hard, or she swollen, like a pulp noir, or a back to bed, like listening (and indulgently), or like what happens to Helene, something absolutely like that, that happens when meaning is wanted—that rush—but wanting to rush too, and having metaphors since Helene means for meaning and did rush and does have metaphors and there’s mirages now, like champagne’s upward hail or balloons shaken from fist and sent petering, abound and rounding rim, like lava like bloopers, like sea foam or blisters, and like that relief, something absolutely like that relief, or rapture, like a lapping feline tongue, or something absolutely like that, like Cole’s, a dancer staged between thighs, and then like a toe-point, or pleasure and pain or love divided by power equals sadism plus masochism, like a hard prick deflowering a girl, or the prick and the girl, and they looking downward, and they catching the surge, something absolutely like a fountain of blood from the first thrill, something absolutely like that feeling—the feeling of power of need of being—encapsulated by music or this music of their visual, like an explosion of red flowers all over his raisining cock, her face a terrifying, gratifying, grotesque glow like a battered fantasy flung across a horizon or Helene’s thought, that any man should hate me had they see me pout, and she looked closely and she was wrong.
Wrong for thinking Cole planed his hard prick pinching her pulp, sending eight-hundred-and-sixty-six or nine-hundred-and-twenty or a number in between of seeds spilling from her V, and an orgasm rattling like clunking cans or the sound absolutely heard moving and then coming from an ostridge’s wrung neck.
Wrong for thinking that Cole wasn’t thinking “—today is Thanksgiving—and so what—maybe—from a bird’s—eye view—our—bodies—look—like scraps—like turkey—like cranberry—condiments—like something sauced—or oozed—or—at least—something—absolutely—like —the first—feast—every year—” Helene was wrong then and always the first to thrill.
notes