May I approach you, Sir?
You may, Clayton. What’s on your mind?
Is your name really Doze Yildaz?
I don’t know how to answer you, Clay. I might know by tomorrow. Or maybe not.
Your name sounds Turkish. I just wondered—
The name was given to me in a dream, so I had no choice but to use it.
I remember that in the dream Yildaz was invisible to me. “The Mad Puppeteer” he was called.
A maker and collector and caretaker of marionettes. Wooden people. He communicated with the world through his dolls. With the world and with himself.
I came to you because I heard you can answer any question.
Uh … “answer” … let’s not use that word. It’s so final and ugly, like the final nail
hammered into a coffin-shaped consciousness. Let’s say I “respond” to people, places, non-places, events, apes, reptiles, skyscrapers, religions, clouds, forests, and whatnot.
Well, I have a question, Mr. Yildaz.
They tell me you’re unusually creative and intelligent. What’s your secret?
Creative and intelligent? Am I? I don’t know, Clay, and I don’t care, at least not at the present moment
Just now, your face has a … peaceful, glowing expression. What are you thinking about?
Naked women dancing under a full moon. What else?
My friend Eric says I shouldn’t have come here. He says you’re totally crazy. Are you crazy?
Me? I’m as crazy as a badger with his asshole stuffed full of dynamite. He’s crawling across some Godforsaken corner of the Mojave Desert and this badger, he’s smokin’ cigarettes and trying hard not to let the ashes and embers drift toward his aching backside. Otherwise, he’ll blow himself up.
But this badger doesn’t care because he’s secretly a phoenix in Phoenix waiting for the Galactic Gumball Machine to drop parachutes of Caravaggio paintings down on the deer hunters and manic-depressive hive-architects and hairdressers of North America.
And I’m kind of a rock-and-roll poet, and I’m dangerous in a Appalachian-shotgun cross-eyed way, and I’m in love and that’s all you need to know for now, son. Trust me.
© Doze Yildaz, 2016