Kalamazoo Is Where Kalamazoo Is

Abstract

KALAMAZOO EATS SNOW. In that way, he eats clouds. But that is only possible in winter. This man called Kalamazoo, because of his hometown, spends hours outside?snow, sun, whatever. He works, sure, but who doesn't? You're a dumb fuck, Linda says. As are we all, she adds. All right, it's Wednesday, with no snow. It's summer in fact. The middle of summer. And out the door, this man Kalamazoo?and that is me?sees a blue-painted diner with the word Karl's over the door, and a weedfield and a streetcorner. He does not see molten rock, although it's down there, somewhere, or snipers holed up in the hills. When Kalamazoo talks, he says I, like anybody else. But when he talks to himself, he doesn't, /is loud, ridiculous. Too much the shape of Popeye's arm. An I-beam. When he thinks, Kalamazoo doesn't say, / think therefore I am. He thinks in the third person. It's awkward. Appropriate. But me is tolerable?the lower case. It's no problem to think me, my day with Linda, for instance. Come over Linda says in the diner. She sits at the counter. I've got a couple of questions for you, Kalamazoo. She's wearing jeans and a black t-shirt and her steel-toed black shoes. She puts a shoe on the chrome-sided stool next to her and kicks it into a spin. Linda is an engineer, and she has offered Kalamazoo work from time to time, which he has taken. With a hard hat on his head, he can laugh at himself. You look toyishl Linda says. As do we all, she adds. Linda spins around on the stool at the counter, a couple of times, as if it's motorized. What's the difference, she says, a man fucking a dog, and a dog fucking a man? Kalamazoo says, I've seen that. Is one worse than the other, I mean? Linda says. Kalamazoo imagines a link between her dark frizzed hair and her way of thinking. She is tangled, brain to toe. Kalamazoo's Daddy was bald, simple in thought. These two are two that Kalamazoo has loved?Linda right here, his Daddy long ago. Kalamazoo