from Visions Of A Mexican Wrestler

When it is time. When the time comes it will be time and there will be sufficient time for you, and I do mean you, to describe the visage worn by this one time but it takes some time for that time to greet its own timely return. It is past the time you would normally consider past the time to go to bed, and yet it is also long before the time at which you most often wake, if not rise. Whenever it was you once and first conceive of “whenever”, it was a routine, capped in an acrid matrix of that syrupily familiar aroma in the open, tall, obtundent-mouthed jar of “Conservas de Naranja” purchased low in the California Sierras by your fully-bearded (jet with reddish highlights) and hitch-hiking older brother, yet then the next previous whenever struck foreseeing had gone berserk and lifted you up to show you exactly the consolidated frogskin feel of your friend Drew’s wet hair (otherwise fluff) and scalp being clutched by you between the bitten claws of your rallying vindication near a wherever, because some chase was now over, whenever that was, in the epicenter of Dallas, TX’s hopeful rubble. Wasn’t it? Whenever it was, whether this or that whenever, you had thought and always you could become or had become the untenable time: there was, was, is— her non-telephoned and only dark but unrouged specimen’s kiss on the upraised hair and the brushy dry that remains to this day, whenever it might occur, the back of your neck (the time is your 5th period Algebra II class)—the diluvian concussion of Francisco’s 17-gauge and grand summer prank that in its ordinary conceit and aggression advances in smoking corridors ever outward from its fluid but un-pontooned duration, the bombshell’s scrambled underwater orthogonality, that May’s chorus of playa devastation, that BOOM!, is Francisco’s heavy-set return of convections for high-jinx you and your good and soon-to-abjure friend Drew have pulled on him weeks prior to this time. Or there could have been and might still be a time when you yourself are rebounding upon a pogo stick on that narrow stretch of Dallas’ Main Street tedium where in 1973 the WFAA Newsvan already logy with VHF equipment is flipped on its considerable and logo-ed side by a picketing crowd’s insurrection and audio feed is never really sobered by the tonic-fizz of this live cut—the obstinate chant of “Santos Rodriguez was murdered” is not cold-blooded, but neither is it distracted by simple rage. And somewhere beneath the expired newsprint of this whenever there is a definite shape of time safely sequestered, the time that has been related to you, time without a native tongue having to be content to be time told, its elapsing, punctured balloon, in passing, by your father, of White Rock Lake itself gushing—an amoeba apprehended or nabbed right through its own vacuole—out of channels unpolluted by city marl into the pumphouse impeller which you, unlike Drew’s assemblage of a father that late March 1975 that is night, you with some lower-lip-out-thrust expertise could have sculpted whenever you wished not into a magnificent catafalque for the exploits of the city into which your afterbirth has splashed but then to wrench and restore to effluent utility. Once the creek’s time has run out and the Trinity River dies of thirst every summer. The streets had before time impending drunk from this limestone basin time hollowed out while the waters were sluiced toward emergency and urban recreation. White Rock Lake has been built (how can a lake be built?; the storage dam having been raised, then) for college scullers and regattas, but White Rock’s water fresh by the sextant-eye of engineers if taken in a dive is saturated with the surface slicks and suspensions of particulate matter even as your plans for revival encourage that fluid to spin or eddy—in time, Daddy wants to know how much attention you are paying to the organic procedures—out of the park and through the pump’s volute to the wide copper bore of outlet pipes and, eventually, connects with treatment and urban potabilty. Or that is true before you are activated on this earth, as well in some whenever whose open bracket turns its back on this time, this parallel whenever when time’s voice reaches you only by overcoming the chilling and refracting distances made obstacles by echoes, a whenever that is a field whose tensors like exponentially recurrent lightning strikes are as unlocatable as the whenever whenever Drew’s godmother Sylvia fed rutabaga scraps one “next” (for Drew on the cusp of a train braking) 1974 Winslow, AZ morning to the newly fissiparous E. Coli. bacterium she did extract from her own intestines and some other later eggshell-yellow morning was then aimed above the blue grama which, checked by aridity, never grows toward the outer limits of the planet’s insidiously incurious and interlocking systems of life-sustain which after all were Drew’s godmother’s dead-eye targets back then in 1974. Or a whenever when it is no longer just a whenever but the time to come having approached the time to be laid aside for this time you yourself are not thinking to take any unobtrusive motion in or away from Drew’s mineral-eyed mother as she scraped the finely chopped onions off the hamburger leftover from what, that night in 1975, was but a half-hour ago your and Drew’s ravenous, further altered mentality. There had been no largesse lurking in your offer to Drew’s mother, nor have you been given any chance to seize time roomy enough to have dropped Visine into a pair of your eyes venially and viably red and prolonged with helper tears scratched out in the confines of indiscriminately fired bong bowls. In the fallow blue of a TV’s UHF illumination Drew’s mother sniffs and said later on, looking for the key to a different whenever handcuffed to this time, the time on its way, any minute now, arrested by olfactory films of grease and salt and genealogical attributes fine as the filaments in a cross-hairs, as if she, Drew’s mother, is just waiting without any intense emotion other than an overactive streak (while you are stoned, “baked”, and yet, dilated as you are, in no time now you extrapolate it all from her crouch, not comfortable but resigned, a stillness interrupting her drowsy lolls of motherly calves and rounded upper arms; a “Drew’s mother” who could be drawn, haggard lurks under this thickly mature mom’s surface) streak for the 2:08 AM commercial to interpose the opportunity for her to say: “I let my genie out of his bottle.”