Silver Coyote
the narrative holds characters of glutinous demeanor
the shape-changing sea spirit proteus is the paradigm of self
men / how much i love them / the things they do so well
need some protein to fix my tender muscles
what is your engine?
it is clean and it is a source of beauty sensations
its inside is pink and resilient like a rubber band
it tastes like soft metal
its lining is moist
it can be filled with cream or jelly like a donut
it is the heart of masculinity
it may be skewered and you will be taken by pleasure
*
It was raining on the afternoon Sky bought his sweater.
He loved the smell of the rain and the calm neutrality of all the colors in his purview, the sidewalks and cinder lots and streets like different shades of dark metal, the sky a gentle cotton.
He liked to pretend he was alone in public, unless he was with Jason.
He kept his black hood up over his mask, a silky blue layer that was easy to breathe through but close to slipping off his chin if he didn’t pay attention.
A woman was talking to everybody at the train stop.
He was next to last to board, and she followed him on and sat down a few seats across from him.
She didn’t stop talking out loud, and when they were halfway into the ride she rushed off, dropping her wet green jacket in the aisle.
*
He had settled on a certain store, an old name in cute retail, a store you could find in any city.
But then he passed a new store, housing a brand that seemed to specialize in anonymity, neutrality, quiet oversized clothing.
He stopped in and put on a sweater in the dressing room. The clothes made him feel like being a turtle, encased and happy in his warm isolation.
The fibers scratched his naked forearms, but gently, enough to remind him of the soft rich thing that covered his torso.
He wondered if Jason would touch his arm and feel the texture.
On the way out the door, a boy passed him, his hand outstretched, and then Sky saw the boy was dripping thin bloody splashes from his hand, which brushed his black rain jacket.
*
At home he worked on a song. He sat in his music chair, the harp resting on his shoulder.
Daddy is sunshine | he makes the wind stop| i am the cave wall |
he makes the fire shine | grasshopper singing| breaking my elbow |
touch Daddy shoulder | fall to the meadow
It sounded like a lullaby. He was thinking of branching into hymns.
The sound of the lowest D string filled his mind.
He played the D string.
The drone split the air in waves.
Two melodies began to form in his mind, one for each hand.
His fingers found the melodies.
The droning D undercut the lullaby.
He stepped out onto the balkon.
The D string’s echo followed him, placing itself amid the dense sounds of night like atonal music.
heated voices, doorslams
clutters of laughs and heavy tire spins
chasses hitting the dip in the drive
the gravel lot where they park
to scream and unburrow,
nighthawks together
Jason buzzed him on the intercom.
They walked toward the restaurant. Jason talked about the style of the homes they passed. Sky imagined playing his harp while Jason worked in the backyard, cutting plants and keeping them healthy.
They ascended the ramp of the pedestrian bridge and he covered his ears, but Jason did not squeeze his shoulder.
They walked to the theater.
Sky and Jason watched a drag queen on stage dancing to songs from Xanadu.
Jason told him about things from that era: Joey Arias, Klaus Nomi, Fiorucci’s—the dancers in the shop window, they were all gone now.
*
“You’re seeing someone?” Sky asked.
“Yes.”
“This weekend?”
“I have a lot of free time since I’m single,” Jason said.
Sky looked at him, followed his jawline to his eyes, which didn’t change their expression.
“Are we dating?” Sky asked.
“I never considered us dating.” Jason turned, briefly looking at Sky before he said, “I didn’t do anything to lead you on. We can talk about it if you want.”
On stage the queen was dancing to Xanadu. He was dazzled by her glittery pantsuit.
“Why do we see each other so often if we’re not dating?”
Jason did not answer.
*
It was late and the street was empty.
In the dark a coyote appeared, running toward them.
The silver coat was a vessel of moonlight.
It turned sharply, following the street.
Jason left him at the end of the bridge.
Alone, he passed the same houses as before.
*
He was consumed with memories of his dates with Jason.
He wondered what they could have been to Jason if they were not the same thing.
The first time he visited Jason’s apartment, Jason showed him memorabilia from NYC.
He knew Boyd Macdonald and Boyd had written him a flirty letter.
Sky told him about the book he read about Boyd.
Jason showed him the letter. He took off his slippers and Sky put them on his own feet.
He climbed into Jason’s lap and they looked at the box of memorabilia together.
*
Feeling unsettled, he went for a walk.
I am wandering in the night wind
like an apple in the sky
*
Sky sent a message to a man he met online.
He met the man at his apartment.
The man entered the bedroom and gave him something that made his lungs gasp.
The man took off his shirt, his shoulders and arms much larger than Sky.
He lay on the bed, unable to move.
The man twisted him half around by his arm.
He felt his ribs flex.
Choices of the vulture—
he tore the meat away
ball bearings of animal marble
*
At home on the balkon, unable to sleep, he wanted to forget Jason.
He only wanted to keep the silver coyote.
*
Sky heard the twilight sounds.
He played a heavy metal song.
vox killer | fox killer | bear trap in the cradle | rock-a-bye | punch it down
on the clown | chug daddy’s blood | make his carpet muddy | make his
waterbed explode | like his fat belly | make it rust | make it rust
He made an appointment with Hanna, an aesthetician at the beauty spa down the street.
Hanna placed a towel on Sky’s face. She performed the constant sensation of shifting textures on his skin.
How’s life?
Not worth talking about
I’m sorry
How are you?
I moved to a smaller place. It has an air conditioner
Oh good
Would you like the sea salt treatment?
Not today
Would you like the sea bird treatment?
What’s that?
You get to be a sea bird
Yes, please
*
A man texted him, and Sky went over to his place.
I met a man at his apartment
a brown recluse wound on his calf
It looked like a piece of flesh had melted out
He acted blameful towards his dog
a tiny chihuahua, sickly and fearful
*
Sky wandered around the hospital complex near his apartment, never sure where the entrance was.
Crying and circling aimlessly, the hospital complex felt like a labyrinth.
I feel too nervous for words
I am in a state of emptiness
My feelings are mylar floating away
I don’t think there’s any way to ask for the help we really need
*
At home, Sky played a song, the soundbox resting on his shoulder.
It’s time to go outside | it’s time to feel the light |
to hear the train go by | alone but I’m alright |
It’s not the world I saw | when I was seventeen |
It’s all a frozen lake | so I put on my skates |
The wind it tastes so clean | the trees they wave at me |
inside the memory | of things I hope to see |
The train it rumbles past | it doesn’t stop for me |
But that’s okay, I’ll be alright | I’ll put myself to bed at night |
I sleep alone in harmony | with yellow birds out on the open sea
*
Sky stepped onto his balkon, looking for the source of a sound, a clanking of discard piles.
Somebody, more than one person, was selecting things to save or sell—bottles and things.
He thought, with a stress sense of correctness,
Here we are sharing the same oxygen, the same trees hovering over us
The sound of my survival is the dense hum of city,
the math too fractal for music theory
Will Owen writes about gay male existence, as well as the torments of growing up working-class. He enjoys playing pickleball and baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.
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