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refuge. Shot of the boy who lit the match, he

let the rank and file slosh his couple then he

lit a Swan match, face young, pure, pitiless as

the cleansing fire brought the match close

enough to catch the fumes.

“Then he lit a Player with the same match,

sucked the smoke in and smiled, he was

listening to the screams and I thought My

God what a cigarette ad: Clambake on a

beach the BOY there with a match. He is

looking at two girls in bikinis. As he lights

the match they lean forward with a

LUCKYSTRIKECHESTERFIELDOLDGOLDCAMELPLAYER

in the bim and give a pert little salute.

“The BOY turned out to be the hottest

property in advertising. Enigmatic smile on

the delicate young face. Just what is the BOY

looking at? We had set out to sell cigarettes

or whatever else we were paid to sell. The

BOY was too hot to handle. Temples were

erected to the BOY and there were posters of

his face seventy feet high and all the

1281/1780

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teenagers began acting like the BOY looking

at you with a dreamy look lips parted over

their Wheaties. They all bought BOY shirts

and BOY knives running around like wolf

packs burning, looting, killing, it spread

everywhere all that summer in Marrakech,

the city would light up at night, human

torches flickering on walls, trees, fountains,

all very romantic, you could map the danger-

ous areas sitting on your balcony under the

stars sipping a scotch. I looked across the

square and watched a tourist burning in blue

fire, they had gasoline that burned in all col-

ors by then. . . .” (He turned on the projector

and stepped to the edge of the balcony.) . . .

“Just look at them out there, all those little

figures dissolving in light. Rather like fairy-

land isn’t it, except for the smell of gasoline

and burning flesh.

“Well they called in a strong man, Colonel

Arachnid Ben Driss, who cruised the city in

trucks, rounded up the gas boys, took them

1282/1780

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outside the walls, shaved their heads and

machine-gunned them. Survivors went un-

derground or took to the deserts and the

mountains, where they evolved different

ways of life and modes of combat.”

THE WILD BOYS SMILE

June 25,1988, Casablanca 4

P.M.

The Café Az-

ar was on a rundown suburban street you

could find in Fort Worth, Texas. CAFE AZAR

in red letters on plate glass, the interior hid-

den from the street by faded pink curtains.

Inside, a few Europeans and Arabs drinking

tea and soft drinks.

The shoeshine boy came over and pointed

to my shoes. He was naked except for a dirty

white jockstrap and leather sandals. His

head was shaved and a tuft of hair sprouted

from the crown. His face had been beautiful

at some other time and place, now broken

1283/1780

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and twisted by altered pressure, the teeth

stuck out at angles, features wrenched out of

focus, body emaciated by distant hungers.

He sat on his box and looked up at me,

squinting, snub-nosed legs sprawled apart,

one finger scratching his jock. The skin was

white as paper, hairs black and shiny lay flat

on his skinny legs.

As he shined my shoes with deft precise

movements his body gave off a dry musty

smell. In one corner of the room I saw a

green curtain in front of which two boys were

undressing. The corner was apparently at a

level below the café floor since I could not

see their legs below the knee. One of the boys

had stripped to pink underwear sticking out

straight at the fly. The other patrons paid no

attention to this tableau. The boy jerked his

head toward the two actors who were now

fucking in upright position, lips parted in si-

lent gasps. He put a finger to one eye and

shook his head. The others could not see the

1284/1780

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boys. I handed the boy a coin. He checked

the date and nodded. The Dib checked the

date of nettles feet twisted by the altered

disk.

“Long time nobody use jump” he said leg

hairs covered with mold. The gun jumping,

crumpled twisted body, his face floating

there the soldier’s identification card and

skinny in picture.

“I was too.” He pointed to his thin body.

He picked up his box. I followed him through

the café. When I walk with the Dib they can’t

see me. Buttocks were smooth and white as

old ivory. The corner of the green curtain

was a sunken limestone square two steps

down from the café floor, dry musty smell of

empty waiting rooms, a worn wooden bench

along one wall. Embedded in the stone floor

was an iron disk about five feet in diameter,

degrees and numbers cut in its edges, brass

arrows indicating N. S. E. W. This compass

floated on an hydraulic medium. In the

1285/1780

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center of the disk a marine compass occu-

pied a teakwood socket. Two pairs of sandals

worn smooth and black, mounted on spring

stilts eight inches in height, were spaced

eighteen inches apart so that two people

standing in the sandals would be one behind

the other, the center of the disk and the mar-

ine compass exactly between them. The

springs were bolted to pistons which projec-

ted on shafts from the iron disk. The sandals

were at different levels. Evidently they could

be adjusted by raising or lowering the shafts.

At a sign from the boy I stripped off my

clothes smooth hands guided by film tracks I

was to bend over and brace my hands on my

knees. The boy reached in his box and took

out a tape measure that ended in a little

knob. He measured the distance from my

rectum to the floor. With a round key which

fitted into locks in the support shafts he ad-

justed the level of the two pairs of sandals on

the spring stilts. He stood up and stripped

1286/1780

off his jockstrap scraping erection. He moun-

ted one pair of spring stilts and strapped his

feet into the sandals poised on the springs,

nuts tight and precise as bearings, his phal-

lus projected needle of the compass, the disk

turned until it was facing the green curtain

which moved slightly as if it might cover an

opening, ass arrows indicating N. S. E. W.

feet a taste of metal in the mouth 18 penis

floated I stepped in the sandals from behind

knees his skinny arms and I was seeing the

take from outside at different levels soft ma-

chine my ass a rusty cylinder pearly glands

electric click blue sparks my spine into his I

bend over and brace vibrating on the springs

iron smell of rectal mucus streaking across

the sky a wrench spurting soft tracks a dis-

tant gun jumping the soldier’s identification

disk covered with mold his smile across tears

of pain squinting up at me snub-nosed hands

at the crotch worn metal smell of the gun as

my feet touched the iron disk a soft shock

1287/1780

tingled up my legs to the crotch. The penis

floated. I stepped onto the stilts in front of

the boy and he adjusted the straps from be-

hind. I bent over and braced my hands on

my knees. He hooked his skinny arms under

my shoulders leg hairs twisted together a

slow greased pressure and I was seeing the

take from outside transparent soft machine

ass a rusty cylinder phallus a piston pumping

the pearly glands blue sparks and my spine

clicked back into his then forward his head

in mine eyes steering through a maze of

turnstiles. Stop. Click. Start. Stop. Click.

Start streaking across the sky a smear of pain

gun jumping out trees weed-grown tracks

rusty identification disk covered with mold.

Click. Green Pullman curtain. Click. “You

wanta see something?” Click. Penis floated.

Click. Distant 1920 wind and dust. Click. Bits

of silver paper in a wind across the park.

Click. Summer afternoon on car seat to the

thin brown knees. Click. His smile across the

1288/1780

golf course. Click. Click. Click. See on back

what I mean each time place dim jerky

faraway. The curtain stirs slightly. Click.

Sharp smell of weeds. The curtain was gone.

The feeling in my stomach when a fast elev-

ator stops as we landed in a stone kiosk by

an abandoned railroad dried shit urine

initials

KILROY

JACKED

OFF

HERE

MARTIN

BUEN

LUGAR

PARA

FOLLAR

QUIÉN

ES?

A.D.

KID

We unlaced our feet and stepped down

from the springs. The disk was rusty and rust

had stained the stone around its edges.

“Long time nobody use jump” the boy said,

pointing. I saw my clothes in a corner

covered with mold. The boy shook his head

and handed me a white jockstrap from his

box.

1289/1780

“Clothes no good here. Easy see clothes.

Very hard see this.” He pointed to his thin

body.

Then I felt the thirst, my body dry and

brittle as a dead leaf.

“Jump take your last water Meester. We

find spring.”

Above the kiosk was a steep hillside. The

boy made his way through brush that

seemed to move aside for him, leaving a tun-

nel of leaves. He dropped on his knees and

parted a tangle of vines. A deep black spring

flowed from a limestone cleft. We scooped

up clear cold water with our hands. The boy

wiped his mouth. From the hillside we could

see a railroad bridge, a stream, ruined

suburbs.

“This bad place Meester. Patrols out here.”

The boy reached into his box and brought

out two packages of oiled paper tied with

cord. He undid the cord and unwrapped two

snub-nosed .38 revolvers the hammers filed

1290/1780

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