Dallas E. Wiebe


Omega I

My mother died—I think of terminal sexual climax—on November 5, 1971, while watching goo-goo eyed King Kong finger Fay Wray in his king-sized palm, and I inherited $200,000. King Kong was rolling his watery eyes around, trying to focus on that little white fetus in his left hand, lowering his submarine-sized, black, greasy right index finger toward screaming Fay, Mom was squirming in her seat, the people behind me were yelling “Down in front” because I’m so tall and always had to sit down front with Mom, who was eating hot, buttered popcorn and drinking Diet Pepsi.

Skyblue on the Dump

Sky stood in the gray, sepulchral hallway of the University of Michigan library. He was early to return his Snorri Sturluson and Le Ménagier de Paris, both due at 8:00 A.M. And he regretted, he mourned, he pined indifferently, that those great structures of the heart must go back to the shelves in librarian time while he, Skyblue, waited in his skyblue levis, his Botticelli hair, his Billy Budd eyes, himself a gnomon of six feet and 150 pounds of undeveloped imagination, his nose aquiline, his ears quincunxes and his throat a pillar of cleanshaven agility.