As a scheduled stop on their tour, Narnia, a Christian metal band, plays the basement of the smallest church in Souix Falls, South Dakota. In the real South, Narnia sells out township auditoriums and county fairs. The singer demands a light pasta meal after every show. He is a small, thirty-six year old in leather pants.
The crowd consists of five teenagers, which is all that can fit because of the Narnia equipment. The microphone stand is a pulpit. They use only one smoke machine tonight. During the set, the crowd begins to sit. Two of the audience, a boy and a girl, kiss. The piano player hits a high C instead of the low B because he decided earlier that he loves the girl who kisses the boy. He names her Sasha.
After the show, a fan takes Narnia to Giggle B's, a pizza restaurant. The food is served by an old robot that runs on a track between the dining tables and the kitchen. Tomorrow they play Cheyenne.
The following is not what he saw while he swung his arms: oceans of blood, dunes of limp muscles, armfuls of beached jellyfish, stars like neighbor's lights left on, through a window, a hurricane and a sizable masking tape X, while the clouds became swift, prowling in empty allies, quiet as broken bottles, lying next to him.
He instead only watched his eyes flood and drown in a red sea, saw the man above him, and then the storm cloud above that man, moving fast, not sure whether he was moving, or was it the cloud.
Could it be worse, that one man is dragged miles to his death, or that another touches the ground once, loses himself, swallows tubes and then swallows himself. Could it be worse, that so many travel without maps.
One student named Mario Rubalcaba set fire to the Westwing Museum during a dull exhibit experimenting with flints, gunpowder, tobacco, and primitive canoes. The faculty was impressed. A fine display of the treacherous journey to British Columbia, they screamed. The Vancouver fire engines traveled speeds of up to 81 kilometers. Someone called Mario William.
The only piece of art damaged was Emily Carr's own first edition manuscript, "The Heart of a Peacock."
What did Emily Carr think? Who knows? She passed away some years ago. She was incinerated and laid about the earth. She rose flowers with her bare hands.
About the author:
Jeffrey Salane lives in Brooklyn and attends the New School University Graduate Writing Program for poetry.