Ron Silliman approaches me in a bar.
“I like it rough,” he says. “I like it really rough.”
As quickly as we’re talking we’re rubbing up against each other.
“I want you to shit in my mouth,” he says.
At first I was turned on, incredibly so, but now he’s saying things like “I want you to stick a steak fork in my shoulder while we’re fucking” and “baby, you can rub vinegar into my asshole while I’m blowing you——and don’t let my screaming stop you.”
“There must be some sort of mistake,” I tell him. “I’m not interested.”
He looks baffled, then really offended.
“But I heard you were cool,” he says. “Zach Schomburg said you were really cool.”
“Yeah,” he continues. “Zach Schomburg said you were tough. Really tough.”
He’s right in my face now and his breath smells terrible.
“Zach Schomburg,” I mutter, almost incoherently.
“Yeah, Zach Schomburg,” he shoots backs at me, almost spitting through his teeth. “The kid you went to high school with. The kid whose dog threw up over everything.”
“O,” I tell him, remembering a poem I read a long time ago, “You’re talking about David Berman.”
“I am not talking about David Berman,” he growls. “I am talking about Zach Schomburg, and Zach Schomburg’s never steered me wrong.”
(note: this dream first appeared in Blake Butler's Lamination Colony)