Read With My Dog Eyes: A Novel for Free Online

shake my dick timetotime for Amanda’s friends, plumed knowitalls, psychologists historians nattering housewives, wives of my horrid colleagues, and jerk off right between their thick legs, stiff and bright exploding with haikus, eh? I close my eyes. The second option: abandon house Amanda son university. Have nothing. Lean my carcass against a nearby wall and here comes someone: you hungry, man? I say yes and here comes a piece of bread (without butter) and a plate of food. Or not? Or here comes that phrase: you look young, can’t you work? I croak, say no, you idiot, I’m never going to work again, because I felt it and I understood it in that instant, got it? They’ll call the police. Right? Just because I lean against somebody’s wall and croak? He of the cross, they ran him out for a lot less than that. Just for wiping sweat. Catching his breath. I felt the un-feelable, I understood the non-equational. If Kadek were still alive I could join up with him. He studied the Möbius strip for ten years. He was rich. And what a wino. Later it was only cachaça. They say some guy heard his last words, as Kadek lay dying in the grass: winged andocher bird of death, he said. Was there some bird flying by? Isaiah and I asked around. I didn’t see one, professorsirs, well to tell the truth I did see two black cuckoos, but way over there. Over where? Way over in the ass-end of the sky, professorsirs. Whiskey was it? I think that would be nice. The two of them were clucking like hens. Amanda: look, if after a few stiff whiskeys you don’t get better I’m calling your mother. Mom? That’s right, Amós, because only a mother can understand a son at a time like this. What time? This time of yours that I don’t understand. Mom. She’ll put on that purple hat with little light-gray felt flowers. Or is the hat gray with purple flowers? All alone. Out in the country. My father dead. The hot buttcheek whispers: I’m going to bring you a really nice scotch. They leave. Staring at the ceiling I think I should take a walk down to Maria Ancuda’s brothel. Are they all dead? Freshness. Lightness. Early morning brothel silence. Would there still be a corner for my desk? To live at the brothel. Mother and I at the brothel. She’ll say: I’m going wherever you go, my son. I think: would all that still exist? Twenty-eight years later. I know Eni’s brothel lasted generations. Grandfather father son. And why shouldn’t Maria Ancuda’s? I think it over again. Mother in the brothel. It’s not possible. I explain: mother, this is good for me, I’ll be calm there, some friend of mine will still be there and I’ll be a little at peace. Atpeace, she says, in a brothel? Mother, you’ve never been to a brothel, it’s nice in the early morning, calm like the country, just like at your house. And won’t she smile? A vast smile, showing her dentures. Mother at seventy. Yes, you laugh, but you won’t be able to go, you’ll stay in a boardinghouse in the suburbs, or go back to the farm, okay? I’ll go wherever you go, son. They’ll say I stuck my little old mother in a brothel. She: is there a yard there? Well, I don’t really remember, but it was a good piece of land, it had a little dog kennel, just wait, it had a tree with purple flowers. Glory-bush, she tells me, a sad tree for a brothel, but there should be room to plant some collards in the back. You’re going to plant collards in the yard at the brothel? Collards, lettuce, what’s wrong with that? I’ll sew too, someone’s likely to tear some clothing, with the hurry of getting everything off, right? We both laugh. I’m taking the car. It’s old but I like it. Amanda went out with the boy. I leave a note: I went with mother. Still don’t know where. Take care of the kid. It’s what a father says. Some day I’ll come back. I have some money. You have more in the little savings account book. Don’t make a scene. Say I’m not there, in Timbuktu, okay? I’m taking the car,