THE LEMON KID
As a young child Audrey Carsons wanted to be writers because writers were rich and famous. They lounged around Singapore and Rangoon smoking opium in a yellow pongee silk suit. They sniffed cocaine in Mayfair and they penetrated forbidden swamps with a faithful native boy and lived in the native quarter of Tangier smoking hashish and languidly caressing a pet gazelle.
His first literary exercise was called The Autobiography of a Wolf. People laughed and said: "You mean the biography of a wolf." No he meant the auto biography of a wolf and here is the autobiographical wolf and his wolf mate Jerry the red-haired wolf in a cool limestone cave licking the sheep blood off each other they are covered with it from head to foot it's been a great night with the sheep and they laugh at those stupid ranchers and often carried poisoned meat for miles in their jaws and flip it into ranch yards to kill the yapping yellow-toothed wolfhounds. As the sun rises they huddle against each other and fall asleep with contented belches.
The idyl ends. Jerry falls to a bounty hunter's bullet. Saddened by the loss of his wolf mate and weakened by distemper Audrey is run down and eaten by a grizzly bear. Now Audrey knew that bears are largely vegetarian and certainly would not eat such a sick skinny grey wolf as Audrey autobiographically was but would simply fold him in warm paws and promise him suitable wolf mates in Moscow so the end rang as false as a Communist mural. Audrey takes off his wolf suit and works on a collective farm. There he is sloshed on a tractor singing "Ochi Chorniya." Better he should have died with his wolf mate from a bounty hunter's bullet.
Jerry the red-haired wolf reappeared years later as the Lemon Kid. He arose from a conversation in which Audrey was not quite included as he usually wasn't he was known simply as "the sheep-killing dog" at Los Alamos where they later made the atom bomb it seemed so right somehow.
"So the sax player sees this guy in the front row sucking a lemon and . . . ARGURGLUUBURK . . . (imitation of sour note on the sax).
"You mean? I Audrey inserted.
"Sure. Just the sight of someone sucking a lemon will do it.
Audrey sidled away having heard what he was there to hear. That night in bed with his eyes closed the pictures came and Audrey knew he was going to have a character.
He is in an East St Louis night club. The band is playing "Ain't She Sweet" with a female vocalist and it's terrible. Audrey covers his ears. Suddenly the Lemon Kid stands in front of the orchestra. He has a straw-colored face dusted with orange freckles and bright red hair.
"Ain't she sweet
See her coming down the street . . .
He listens and his lips draw back from his teeth.
"Now I ask you very confidentially .
He slips half a lemon into his mouth and sucks it around in circles gurgling through the lemon from deep in his throat.
"AIN'T SHE SWEET . . .
A crescendo of sour notes from sax and horns. The vocalist stands there with spit hanging off her chin like a cow with the aftosa. Waiters and bouncers converge. The Lemon Kid spits out his lemon, drops on all fours and turns into a skinny red-haired wolf smiling his back teeth bare as he leaps through a window into the summer night. The Lemon Kid went on to demolish hymns, national anthems, Irish tenors, yodeling cowboys and individual atrocities like "Trees" and "Danny Deaver. At a Wallace Rally he put the lemon on Old Glory. There he is right in front of the orchestra a raccoon skin coat down to his ankles carrying a YOUTH FOR WALLACE banner.
OH SAY CAN YOU . . .
He pops the deadly lemon into his mouth and lisps through it . . .
"THEEEEEEEEEEEE
The orchestra disintegrates in sour notes and pathic screeches from the horns. Now he turns to the singing audience and shoves his lemon in every bellowing mouth. He spits out the lemon strips off his raccoon coat and stands naked with a hard-on. A cry of strangled rage bursts from the crowd screaming clawing slipping on their spit to get at him as he drops on all fours smiling his back teeth bare and ejaculates canines tear through his bleeding gums stretching his face to a snout red hair ripples down his back into a bushy red tail laps his lean flanks leaner crinkles and shrinks his balls squeezing jets of sperm from his red pointed wolf phallus quivering teeth bare his eyes light up bright lemon yellow and nitrous fumes steam off his body a reek of burning film and animal musk. He leaps through an invisible window and disappears in the 1920 night with a distant sour train whistle.
When the Kid puts the lemon on you you are through in show biz. Time to retire. Get half a sucked lemon spit out on the ground as he smiles all his teeth at you and skitters away across a distant sky.
Packing quickly. Must leave for water. Whistled in the shadow. Wait for Monday sadness. I was talking to someone vague. My suitcase. Farja waits. Hadn't any more. Long overdue. I tell him I have no time. Points after his master there. Breaks into tears. Now from the doorway it is grey in the snow. Dumbbell the pointer. Teeth. He is trying to smile. I hadn't thought of dumb half-healed scar on the right a wall. Luster of stumps washes his way. Cold lost marbles in the night. Little blue-eyed twilight flicker of weeds from vacant lots. Blue stars alleys in the sky. Withered brown plants in pots. In ten minutes June 15 me at the detour. Crumpled stars. CIA agents faded in a mirror. Has gone. Alie arrives on the blue boat. Pale smoke boy. Is nothing there. I can see a dog pointing with fur like a wolf. It shows gold. He is'sick and injured. Ice skates on side of his head. Grins between his legs. Blue stars in the sky. Go there soon?
Come and jack off . . . 1929
little boy did.
smell of attic room musty darkness
a black dog comes down the stairs
caught a glimpse of the Canadian army
blizzard blowing rainbow death mask
ass . . . showers . . . the bunks were empty
birch lots . . . cool evening sky
in the plane I realized what had happened
a skull his name.
saying something lips chapped
standing at the window . . . forget-me-nots
a room haunted by cold coffee . . . summer people
little post card town ghostly young face
yellow perch flapping on the pier
smell of urine on moss
and here is Snowy Joe his face twitching
he needs the Snow
silent snow secret snow on grimy back stairs
blowing under rooming house doors
blanketing back yards and ash pits
Come and jack off . . . 1929
smell of musty summer in the distance
little boy did very little
chapped lips yellow urine on moss
smell of caramel cake on his breath
room with ship scenes on the wall
a dusty sea shell in the empty room
a side porch in Cambridge
Doctor Benway drunkenly
added two inches to a four-inch incision
with one stroke of his scalpel
and he was there like the Lemon Kid.
