I’m waking up slowly and I’m stretched out against my red and purple sheets like a cat and I am sighing, like the sun rising and setting, and, as I crack my one good eye open, I see that Ron Silliman’s sucking my toe. But my toe’s much bigger than normal——It’s the size of a really big banana, or perhaps more accurately three big pomegranates stacked on top of each other.
And, hell!——this is heaven. And hell!——Ron’s a pro. He must have done this a billion times. But then, all of a sudden, he hops up and walks into the bathroom and——O My——standing there in the doorway he’s young Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke.”
“I can’t do this any more,” he says. “I’m bored.”
So, I’m helping him pack up his stuff. All his Bee-Gees and Lionel Ritchie LPs. His hope chests full of Lalique nudes and Wild West Chia Pets. Kimonos covered with African Art (all bought, he told me, from the royalties from his first book).
We’re sitting on the grass together. The sun’s setting. It feels like Creeley and Olson in a diner after talking all night.
“How does the mountain die?” I ask.
“It dies,” Ron intones. “It dies.”
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