Joe as Buddha

“I heard from Kurt today,” I tell Joe.

“& what does that stoned commie drunk have to say for himself?”

We're smoking a joint on the cricket-enhanced loading dock at the far end of the factory, on a moonlit break from the machines.

“He maintains pissing is a cheap orgasm.”

Joe breaks up. He laugh-coughs. “That whore!” he bellows. Joe's read all of Kurt's books. He's an absolute, unequivocal fan. “Kurt is a true fuckin' comrade in arms! I want his women!” Joe wails. “That commie slut! Make sure you tell him I sd that shitting is a spiritual ejaculation!”

Joe cracks up. He impersonates Curly warding off something weird with his long arm. He pushes & thumbs the soft bone into my pinching fingers. An enormous black train rushes behind the factory-coated trees & violin-insane crickets in the thick weeds out back.

“I'll bet Kurt's probably drunk & passed out right now, with 2 naked chicks beside him in Detroit,” I say. I suck the dope for a giant hit, exhale wet smoldering dragons. The smoke shades a corner spotlight on the dock, where mosquitoes fry to the glass, like moving gray clouds across the slow moon.

“He's no doubt pissing his bed & smiling! The commie fuck!” Joe quakes. Joe has Buddha's beer belly. When he's sufficiently fucked-up, Joe has the same expression as peaceful Buddha on his face, too. With eyes slit, lips slit, the stars pull his skin & soul. Ascension & sarcasm rise with the orchestrated music of Frank Zappa, loud in Buddha's head, playing tricky xylophone rolls around his skull. Joe worships Zappa, & Kurt. Tonight, after coughing & yelling & laughing, as we walk back thru invisible monster birdsongs of crickets & into the factory's heavy-duty overhead lights, I think Joe looks like John goddamn Belushi.

From Ron’s book Factory Fables 2017