Mark Leyner - My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist

in the blazing headlights of an oncoming subway car, my mother's skin is as translucent as the tissue-thin page of a norton anthology

my flesh is completely transparent; in 1956 i sat on a bridge chair in the middle of a rodeo and let elizabeth taylor watch my heart pump purple blood through my aorta and the mucous membrane of my stomach secrete gastric juice and my vasa deferentia carry sperm from the testes and i said: i hope you're not turned off by the verfremdungsefѓekt of my transparent body

my exquisite epic and lyric verse have been featured in magazines across the country

grateful acknowledgment is made to the following publications in which some of these poems first appeared: good housekeeping for "have you ever felt the cold dick of your own shadow? (prelude to a quaalude)"; McCalѕs for "shall i compare thee to loan sharking, gambling, hijacking, extortion, union racketeering, cigarette smuggling, home video pornography, or narcotics?"; cosmopolitan for "have you ever been hit in the head by a cruise missile?"; and ladies' home journal for "have you ever been lying on your back under a viaduct in a tranquil rural area with a blade of grass in your mouth and suddenly you look up as a tractor trailer veers off the road and crashes through the guardrail above and it's plummeting straight down at you and you only have time to catch its license plate 'new hampshire — live free or die' before its two and a half tons crush your helpless body?"

these spicy, violent, superbly plotted verses are perfect for television

across the tundra snow did fall

flecked with blue like fab and all

my father slapped me across the face with his hairy knuckles and his fraternity ring and he said, tell the horrible story! tell it! and the earth shook because of the earthquake, near Cleveland and the drag strip was busy… you couldn't help but stop and listen even in the newsroom every once in a while the typewriters would stop there was one drag race after another the caterwaul of two engines did you ever put your ear right up against someone's fly when he unzips his trousers— that's what it was like the obbligato of screaming engines, of berserk motors also against that background you could hear the sound of teenagers opening their cans of coke — that simultaneous pop and sibilance throughout the night this special sound occurred it was incessant, but exhibited no discernable pattern my father took a sloppy swig of chowder from his thermos and spit a diced clam onto the table i'll let you off this time, he said to it and dispatched it with a fillip into the starry starry night tell the horrible story! he said to me, brandishing his chapped fist oh god, he said, coughing up blood and sputum don't tell it, he said, sing it to me, son sing it — you have your grandmother's sweet irish tenor, son — sing it i was going to tell the story about the time my mother kicked me down the steps and she was standing back at the top looking down at me — she was in her black bra and panties — and she said… i said sing it, son! sing it!!

my mother kicked me down the steps

she was standing at the top

in her black bra and panties

laughing shrilly

etc.

this father is smoothing his hair… he is making half a dozen psychodramatic gestures like tackling the son and giving him a kung fu chop to the throat this father's nose is so big that it blocks the sunlight, hindering the photosynthesis of green plants and leading to the breakdown of vital food chains

this father's nose is so big that if you took each of his nose hairs, tied them together, and put a hook on the end, you could stand on the moon and fish in lake michigan

in the pitch-darkness, i could hear the sound of grandma's guitar in the early mesozoic era, grandma played a slide guitar solo that lasted for eight years, causing the universal landmass to break up into continents

grandma, you are the primordial monster you are the monster who predates chronology when the big bang was heard, you were already a fearless businesswoman, throwing back your head and laughing yes! to all of life's challenges you are grandma, the great bulimic divinity, who roams the moors with a flamethrower and a spray gun filled with barbecue sauce and when you see a lamb you douse it with sauce and you say stand back! and you charbroil it with your flamethrower and then when you've eaten an entire barbecued lamb you go behind a bush and stick your finger down your throat — and you leave a business card in the jawbone of each carcass that reads: you've been ritually sacrificed, bolted down, and barfed up by granny — america's preeminent flesh-eating deity

grandma, help me sing — help me sing of the nude gladiators who are tan except for white buttocks, who flex their glutei maximi in unison help me sing of grandpa who went to the store for a tube of toothpaste 16,000 lines of dactylic hexameter ago and never returned

some people say that grandpa lives in the bekбa valley and that all he has in his cupboard is a swollen can of vichyssoise and a container of nondairy creamer; some people say that he's become a human ashtray to a gang of sadistic girls who hold court in a lavish trump tower apartment; and some people say that he's fallen in love with a pink rose in his garden — they say that each night he creeps out in the dew, wearing an expensive ribbed scented condom made from a sheep's intestine — and he bicycles to the center of his maze where his pink rose lives — and he gently bends its long stem and he cradles the rose in his arms and kisses its petals, mumbling — and he snorts the yellow powdery pollen from its stamens… as bees stand on the sidelines waving hi mom!

the rain is intermixed with tickertape

the desolate plain is littered with costumes of the commedia dell'arte doffed in great panic

from a lone mesa in the distance comes the numinous voice of my grandma, the grandma of all men: you with the tiny degenerate eyes, the $200 loafers, the mohair suit, and fat gold pinky ring, compulsively massaging skin moisturizer into your hands — you are the only grandson who does not flee in terror

i am estranged from most men my american express card says simply: multicellular animal with specialized digestive cavities — requires corrective glasses

will you purge my mortal grossness so

that i shall like an airy spirit go,

i mumbled, writhing like a stripper from chippendale's

a guitar chord of incalculable decibels is strummed, rending the earth between my feet

grandma, speak to me

you speak me, she says… and with these words my own larynx resonates

grandma, take me in your arms

these are my arms, she says… and i feel my own elbows ache with rheumatism

grandma, let me sleep in your womb

this is your womb, she says… and my testicles inflate like two balloons and my penis unfurls into the air like a paper noisemaker

now sing of the nude gladiators who are tan except for white buttocks and if anyone tries to stop you, remember, not only do you sing under the auspices of grandma, the primordial bulimic monster who predates chronology and flame-broils sheep, but your singing is also supported by logistical elements from the army's xviii airborne corps, marine attack planes, and naval gunfire from the battleship new jersey i have spoken

there is total darkness there is a flourish of horns there is light three beach towels blackout pause lights up three nude gladiators on beach towels tan except for white buttocks scars from whips, lion bites, spiked balls, and chariot wheel blades nude gladiators flex glutei maximi in unison flex relax flex relax flex relax pause three phones ring nude gladiators slowly crane necks over left shoulders to survey audience and then reach for phones upstage with right hands as if making synchronized swimming strokes hello, say NGs in unison voice of telephone interlocutor (audible to audience): moaning NGs: who? voice: more moaning nude gladiators take receivers from ears, hold aloft, and then smash down into phone cradles blackout pause lights up receivers held aloft blackout sound of receivers being smashed down pause voice: i do not need your primitive telecommunication devices to make myself audible lights up nude gladiators have scrambled to their knees in obeisance, bowing up and down and up and down NGs (scared, awed): identify yourself voice: flood of exquisite lyric verse NGs: oh, that was good, that was good voice: did you like that? NGs: that was really good! voice: can you three guys work the grabber? NGs: what's the grabber? voice: it's a special rescue crane NGs: standard or automatic? voice: standard NGs: we could learn voice: good, i'm sending you three to el paso blackout pause lights up a woman is on the ledge of a tall building, covering her armpits a policeman yells up to her through a bullhorn: no one's going to arouse you! woman: no te creo los conquistadores no vinieron solo por oro! policeman hands bullhorn to priest priest: isabel, me llamo padre vallejo absolutely nobody is going to kill you softly with his song you have my solemn word of honor policeman gets on squad car radio: get the grabber over here now! we'll try to stall her voices of three nude gladiators: we'll be right there blackout lights up three NGs are in grabber cab operating controls grabber pincers rise high in air and pluck woman off ledge woman is waving arms hysterically: it tickles! it itches! quй mъsculos! blackout