I don’t have much time. This is what’s happening.
The sky is pouring hard-rain through the swiss cheese-holes in my roof. The earth is shaking and I’m throwing up black ink the color of the rings around my eyes. My stomach muscles spasm, the black liquid spray hurts, and I hate it.
In my kitchen I fix another cup of coffee for comfort; it tastes of smooth silk. I’m wearing a PVC raincoat, and nothing else. Soaking wet newspapers taped and tacked are dripping down my walls like crawling caterpillars. Bold headlines read: What happens next?
Braced in the sheets of my bed is a girl with nipples the color of coffee, and skin the color of creamer. Her bare breasts are swinging back and forth with the shakes of the heart pulsing earthquakes. She says her name is Mars, and I believe her because she has electric wings. Her wings buzz like traffic.
“I feel sick,” I say.
“Maybe it’s the quakes? Or see a doctor?”
“Doctors don’t know about deadlines.”
“You’ve been throwing up for the past few weeks. You need help.”
Holding myself up against the shaking of the hotel room, I see my computer screen blinking in neon red the words, do something, and the end.
From the force of the earthquakes I tumble head over heels into the bathroom; my colon pulls and I buckle over vomiting more ink, a bucketful, enough to cover my body with. I do just that. Rubbed it in, all over, covered in the stuff, the ink, and the raincoat.
Mars hands me my cell phone, and says, “Call your editor.”
I dial my editor and this is what I say; “Ink is in my lungs, on my fingers, and everything else. I can’t get it off, plus a girl with electric wings is flying around my room.”
Editor says, “Your deadline is in two weeks. No extension.”
“Oh Jesus, give me a break.”
The editor says, “No Jesus,” and the line dies with a hum.
I take a sip of the coffee; it tastes like science fiction, and Mars says, “That’s because all of that ink you’re spitting up.”
My body is dripping black ink like ice cream melting down a cone. I run down the hall still naked, save my raincoat, my penis flopping like an elastic cord, flinging inkblots onto the rose-colored wallpaper. The quakes cause floors to crack and debris to fall.
When I get to the end of the hall I make my way down the half-left-stairs and into a white-on-white room. Pop art on the wall is titled: This is what you need. In the back of the room Mars is sitting with her legs wide, her beautiful breasts hanging off both sides of her.
“Have a seat,” she says.
I sit in an antique-rust chair and she shaves my head, feeds me a steak, and baptizes me.
I say something prophetic or pathetic that sounded like, “I miss you.”
I wretch more black ink and it lands on Mars’ neck and chest; framing and highlighting her nipples. The quakes stop.
I flex my rectum and vomit enough ink to fill a small sea. Looking through the window I see everyone swimming in the black ink ocean I’ve made. Belly-up fish.
The ink rises and fills the hotel. The ink ocean waves pick me up and take me out through one of the hotel’s windows; the ink tastes like bitter syrup. While being pulled out the window I see Mars fly overhead toward heaven; she pops in the sky like a reverse falling star.
Treading in the ink a woman yells, “Hello!”
“I’m over here!” I shout back.
Funneling the ink between my fingers, we reach each other. We touch. Drowning in the rising ink we fall into each other’s bodies, we fuck like a bookkeeper and a poet.
“I love you with an artificial love,” she says.
“I want you and need you,” I say.
My anus shifts and my abdomen twists, I throw up more ink. It propels me away from my new love.
“I’ll miss you!” I shout.
She floats for a second before many waves take her away.
The ink takes me to a neon red carpet. I walk down it smoking a cigarette.
Mars is standing, hands on her hips, electric wings spread; they buzz with information. We say our vows and I apologize for falling in love with the ink woman.
We sit in my apartment bleeding-black while everyone else drowns outside.
My stomach settles. I take a shower and Mars’ hair touches and untouches the skin below my belly button. The editor’s line buzzes and we wonder what the future of communication will look like. I pull myself down into her. We fuck like things exchanging properties, human and inhuman. Mars snaps her black bra on, and I hang my raincoat on a silver hook.
“Pass me the sugar baby,” I say, “I’ve got a lot to write down.”