| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** Ralph-Michael Chiaia--aka RMC, aka Parliament/Ralphadelic, aka the Scruff Daddy, then changed to the In the Buff Daddy (recently changed to Pea Diddy, then Brie Diddy), with his sidekick the Notorious P.O.P.E live on MTV, that'll do: back to the spiel--is a surrealist and realist writer. He has been compared to Italo Calvino, Julio Cortazar, the Yeti, and The Notorious BIG. Check him at his blog: http://rmchiaia.typepad.com or at http://litchaos.com/rmc.html where he is an editor. |
 |
 |
| © 2005 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
| Home |
| Submit |
| Prologue “Glyphic” |
| by Ralph-Michael Chiaia |
| [Chinese restaurant. Salsa music on the radio. MUSCULAR CHINESE CHEF in white apron behind bar at far wall. Kitchen Door on left. Eight very big tables. FOUR GORGEOUS WOMEN¾ bubbling with sexuality (or is it innocence?)—lean against the wall next to Kitchen Door.]
The pretty & friendly one Brings reheated tea & on first sip. Reggae green spirals Aztec-walk up my sleeves Out tea spout. My pages turn micro-flesh Mini Aztecs violent As the large ones Kill Right in front of me; A man in a feathered headdress Draws an obsidian blade Through the bare chest Of another. He collapses On my plate. Blood drips From his body like soy sauce From clear packets. They vanish beneath a cloud— A waft of smoke from a passing Sizzling Szechwan special— & Here come the Mayab —in robes— Elegant, solemn, glyphic —like the writer. One nods, de-robes & Brandishes an enormous Jaguar spotted cock & balls A pretty girl dives in spicy mustard salsa spilling some She resurfaces, waves, & shakes her hair out like a dog Mustard splatters, it overflows from the salsa dish Xalai? I ask, she nods. She’s more beautiful than My mind’s previous incarnations Ta’ak is hauling salt crystals As big as his body across my woven place setting Waxi crawles through my noodles Xalai bows & smiles lasciviously. Ta’ak dumps salt beside my plate He picks a crystal—the lines shine prismatic On his face, orange through blue —& places the luminous salt as a seat But Waxi, instead of sitting, Steals an ? (the lower part of an i) from an i On my page, spears it Through his lobe as an earring &— The waitress comes. They vanish Delicate, so delicate & on my page —all my letters are missing! Waxi you thief! Bring back my letters The white consumes the page like the Pequod I find I’m screaming, bring them back —people are looking. The Chinese chef pounds his fist into his palm A waitress comes running with a teapot Opens the cover, where I expect to see tea There are letters, granite ones, peeled from the page Like boulders to go into micro-pyramids Strewn on porcelain kettle-ground. The letters are out of sequence, I say K stands up, angry, with its bent knee in a Judo crouch I cover my eyes—expecting the blow So, the waitress says. Here she puts them down like this. I find K’s offense is merely defense. Not bad, I say. Nor are you, she takes my arm & puts hers through mine Like we were to walk through a sunset Or have an old movie fade out With her free arm she gathers letters In her cupped hand ¾destroying this very work in the process¾ & puts them back in the kettle She’s a good waitress She pours them into my cup Toma, it’s good for you. I drink the letters I’m Tz’ikin During the rainy season Wings flut-fluttering In a puddle Rainwater fills a gash In an elephantagenous Ceiba trunk Where pollywogs have turned tadpole & swim in leaf-coated pond eighty-seven days later Frogs bounce out. The letters burn within me Like mezcal with the worm I convulse This is the process of nourishment Vomit An inner explosion A creative cosmic serpent Out my esophagus Into a napkin (We must have manners) & calmness—immense & total Sits on my eyelids Like creation Like One Crocodile I nearly sleep. But open the napkin To find this As you read it |
 |
| Nov. 2005 |
| 53 |