Organic Honey
by Gracjan
Kraszewski
To place a finger inside
the buzzing madness; no, just the tip of a digit,
the outer recess of a trimmed and treated
fingernail, coruscated with antihistaminatic
polish. His life would be complete, his pièce
de résistance actualized. Ever seen Marc’s
Tierschicksale? Imagine the work
synchronistically medled with absolute zero—
the enthalpy-enthropy minimum, as in Maunder
Minimum Qv. Great Frost of 1709—and upward
lightning and the guy who cleaned out his
Flatbush apartment between 12:02 and 4:06 AM one
April morning, leaving only his laptop, lying
open on the middle of the floor with the charger
plugged in and taped to the wall, Gladys Knight’s
most famous song blaring on repeat.
The name’s Jay-David
Bartholomew Dlop by the way, thank you very much.
If acquinatances move from vous to tu, “Mr.
Platypus Dlop” is his preferred address.
“Three, two, one…,”
he pulls back his finger. “Five, four,
three, two…” Coward. Dlop installed a
hot tub below it, shortly after first laying eyes
on what he calls “Mount Moby-Dick Everest.”
Perhaps it’s the way
one approaches a problem. He climbs into
the water. Tecates are chugged. He steadies
himself. He begins to raise his hand toward the
goal. No need for liquid courage. No need for
anything anymore. The hive has fallen, onto his
head.
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