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Show Acting Alone Page 6Q sister was, after all, at least the nominal bride of Jesus R. Savior. Sam stared now at that ivory brow. That soft, trimmed, auburn beard. Those sexy-stringy Hollywood muscles that would look so goddamned good in crucifixion diapers. And those pink, dreamy, pouting, liplike Ricky Nelson eyelids. All packaged so trimly in that Immaculate Body, so semitically chic and compact. Simply infuriating to a florid celt like Sam. Rough competition indeed. But Sam was somehow sure that it hadn't been merely his own customary megalomania that had seen the silver heart flutter on her breast like a cold meadowlark when she'd first laid eyes on her little sister's big school-marm. It was amazing what a shortage of men could do to a woman's eyesight. See the Lamb of God made manifest, the Parousia, in some Oliver Hardyesque harelip who has come to kill some time being all moony-eyed over a few old books. God, but what books. Books from a time when people still loved books as something-more than commodities, these incredible, garage door-sized, nightmarishly gaudy editions of Poe. Regular museum pieces, dating back X-number of scores of years into the previous century when America was finally beginning to take Baudelaire's point that Poe was pretty hot shit after all (way, way after Poe's death, of course). Sam always experienced an intense glandular reaction to these sacred relics. Nor Mailer nor Meredith was inside these vacuum-packed cases; no chemical-impregnated self-cannibalizing pulp paper, but rare milkfed baby vellum, edged with cold hard gold, Dore-illustrated, and printed with pretty okay poetry, too. These books made Sam momentarily forget the current literary marketplace |
