Noah burns books of poems. It is a strange relationship between ink and fire, each author, slobbering like a mutt, trying to escape by peeing down the leash. His own, most ambitious poem, “The Neighbor That Never Waved Back”, rhythmically distilled, as if by accident, begins, unsurprisingly, by documenting Noah’s hatred for every individual on the block. A trite, concise introduction unfurls into behemoth manifestoing. He feels the weight of words like a becaped ghost, ever-expanding, a series of crowns carving densities in his skull. His ability to blend in slowly erodes. Were this revelation documented anywhere outside a blog with zero clicks, a decision may have been reached that he was worthy of being hanged. As it stands, negligence has become a most unfortunate impetus.
Noah attends parties for the sake of a lopsided line, spelling out his hatred before getting to the car. A bagpipe version of “Amazing Grace” booms from the neighbor’s house. He rolls his eyes behind sunglasses, relaxing as low as the kiddy pool will fit. His phone issues doorbell sound effects in retort. A newly acquired potbelly rises above the water, sunburnt. He’s sat inside a tidal wave, counting bodies while they float. The water feature next door flows over triple layered stone. Like a wedding cake, he tries. Noah plans to marry out of spite.
Caffeine and psych meds grind his teeth for him. He dreams of resting a bible on Balzac’s milky belly. Olive oil and red wine vinegar duel intestinally. A couple of friends he’d rather see dead don’t return calls. He spills dressing on paperwork bearing the city’s insignia. They’ve solicited land, meaning to bugger his property line. No choice, in fact, has been presented. Two hundred dollars opened on every credit card engulfs little debt. Too poor for air, he opens windows. Ambient backdrop a tantalizing promise of peace he’ll never see, fountains tease him. Tranquility instilled by the outlet. Owning such a trickle, he’d be efficient at last.
Partygoers’ heads roll back to laugh. YouTube demonstrations crank, full volume, hearing aids powered off. Dentures flap like butterflies when they speak. The leathery couple likes their liquids. A drink’s journey through the straw tuckers them out. Noah inserts pink ear plugs. The sun pokes holes in everything: burns his flowers, scalds the grass till roots give up. Cigarette sized scars form in the pool. A sewer drain will be his only water feature. He crowbars the heavy lid, lowering himself down with an emergency ladder. Some vague intention to blueprint competing masonry bluffs him further. Traversing a tube beneath the bonfire pit, prone and furious, someone’s toilet flushes, accelerating his journey. Noah, realizing it’ll be weeks before they find him, is ecstatic to remain an exclusive feature of the property, sealed away, invisibly coagulating, free of the enforced formalities these neighborhood strangers impose by staying so aggressively, needlessly, alive.
David Kuhnlein’s writing is featured or forthcoming in NOON, 3:AM, Maximus, SCAB, and others. He edits the literary review column Torment, venerating pain and illness, at The Quarterless Review. He lives in Michigan and is online @princessbl00d.