Ron and I are watching “Whale Wars” together.
The best part’s when we’ve finished up the popcorn which Ron’s prepared in his adorable little French Maid outfit (wiggling his ass the whole exquisite time) and we’re cuddling together on our snow-white bear skin.
Meanwhile, our heroes are hot on the Japanese tail—— maneuvering beautifully and dangerously through the floes.
But the screen goes all white-fuzzy and Bob Hass, a young Bob Hass, comes on, and announces: “Now I am going to read some Haiku from my new Harpoons-Book “Killing the Big Fat Blubbering Ron Silliman.”
Ron, in my arms, has gone stiff as a roach.
“Whalingly Black Macho Ron O
We’ve come so far damned wrong———
Puked up Ice—Glass—Shattered Black-veined God.”
“Wow!” I exclaim, “He sounds like Aase Berg.”
But Ron doesn't answer, because, I see, he's frothing all through his body like a stomped-on roach.
“Ye Old Black Time-Heart Sky
Blubbering Ron Whale Swimmingly
Swooooooosh——Fat Bob Hass Death!”
I can’t see anything at all now except for Ron’s roach-froth which has spewed out and dissipated into and around everything: a kind of mist I’m walking into, bellowing out, like a foghorn--"Ron, Ron, Ron”
And I bellow and I bellow and I bellow but all the fog offers back to me is one final Death-Throes verse:
“Whale-Musk-Puke Spouted Love
Ass-custard bright-green Death
Soups and statues, slurp slurp slurp.”
And nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Just fog.
And my grief.
My lonely foghorn's grief-cry
“Ron, Ron, Ron.”
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