The Terrorist From La Mancha
People come here to be imagined. People come here to be beautiful, ruined. He sees the gears in everything. He sees into the near future—two minutes from now. He wonders how the city will be in twenty years. The showed bodies on TV, pictures of the carnage at the shopping mall where the terrorist’s bomb went off. He wants to be alone, recursive. His genitals hurt. Another bomb went off in the courthouse, they showed pictures of the carnage. He could be a hangman in five minutes, he could fight with giants, or fall into their arms. He can live without perfection, he can take love or leave it. He can spell his own name. Love feels like something vestigial, a sign of what we once were, like graffiti. He’s masturbating to pictures of the apocalypse, he feels tired and depraved. He stares at himself in the mirror and wonders why he’s so self-absorbed. All he can do is wait it out. He thinks about films with clearly defined heroes and villains. Briefcases of hundred dollar bills, lines of cocaine. Syringes full of death, needles dripping with desolation. A row of taxicabs, a desert of windmills. A dog with blue eyes, a child wearing an eyepatch. Everything covered in dust. All the kids who don’t know the slang they’re using is outdated. The woman in his dream goes out in a rainstorm to stare into outer space. She’s waiting for the light from dead stars, light that will never reach her. The rain turns to snow. Outer space becomes invisible. He’s out looking for her, he’s calling her name. He’ll tell you all about his post-adolescent years if you want to hear: a procession of shit jobs for the minimum wage. Movies by Quentin Tarantino and Stanley Kubrick. He’ll talk to you all night if you’ve got the time. All his silences are pensive. He asks nothing but loaded questions. Another two bombs go off in the city. Everyone’s afraid to go outside. Atrocities are common. No miracles or wishes will be granted. Nobody told him this place was a war zone, full of people who think they can see into the future. Diviners, saints, silent and invisible. He uses a payphone to call a powerbroker from China. He wants to put his money into the stock market. He looks at his watch. He has somewhere to be.
