It Will All Burn
Matt DeBenedictis
Fall 2009
Fall 2009
When he said burn. When he said fire. When he said damnation. His eyes lit up and his wrinkles formed a hidden smile.
It will all burn. He said. His face was full of smiles crouching under folds of old flesh.
What will? I asked.
You, your friends, this building, all the bunnies, the white house, your cock. It’s all going to be gulped down like a delicious snack by the flames. He said.
That’s not good. I said. I took another bite out of my corn dog, my 4th street corn dog, which is far better than the corn dogs you can get on 7th street. The batter is the difference.
This man was starting to get on my nerves. This show of dark theater was past intermission; everything that made me laugh was now making me turn sour and thick on the inside. A taste of an old sickness was breeding scabs in my blood. Veins were getting congested; I could feel my feet disappear.
God loves us too much to see us suffer. He said.
Last time I heard that was when I felt the heat from her lips. We were intertwined, almost one—but not. Both of our breaths were meeting, they greeted. I could smell hers and she could smell mine. Hers was a lime rose. Mine was whatever it was back then. She put her hands on my chest. I became lava. She pushed me back, just a bit, a quarter of couch cushion length. I became dirt. Then she said those words about God, love, and suffering and how we weren’t supposed to kiss until God told our hearts it was time.
Just read this, boy. He said. And he handed me a photocopied mini-book. It was poorly cut and no bigger than my palm. I quit looking him in his eyes.
I finished my battered dog and dropped the stick onto the concrete. It made no noise.
I began to flip through his book. The pages were firm and not easy to turn, as if the pages had been cut from a rock and designed to fight back. The front page should have been enough information, a large red flame coiled and crashed all over the cover. You in hell, it said inside the flame with a simple font. Ariel Bold.
Most of what the man had been yelling at me was in the pages of the book but written inside of other hand carved and colored flames. The waves of the flames were jagged as if a hand stuck in the position of cup holding formed the lines. The flames kissed no symmetry and held no romance with fluidity.
Your friends.
Written inside flames.
Papyrus.
This building.
Written inside flames.
Lucida Grande.
Bunnies.
Written inside flames.
Ariel Bold again but with two fluffy knife-tipped ears connected to the word.
The white house.
Written inside flames.
Comic Sans MS.
Your cock.
Written inside flames.
A picture of a penis was indented in the flames, joining the word, giving it comfort, like a partner in death.
Book Antigua.
You don’t preach to women do you? I asked.
I would never waste my time. He said.
I took a deep breath. As I exhaled my toes began to wiggle and remind me that they can feel.
Let’s talk graphic design. I said.
Was that a 7th street corn dog? He asked. His lips quivered a little revisiting their last taste.
Go fuck yourself. I said. It’s a 4th Street dog. Let’s talk branding.