SPAHR, Juliana
That Winter the Wolf Came

It’s all good, I would say, it’s all fucked. And then I would breathe. And then, again, it’s all good; it’s all fucked. Again, breathe. And then, it’s all good; it’s all fucked. Breathe again. I might do this while walking. Or while driving in the car. Or while lying down, before taking a nap.

It was Non-Revolution. Or it was me. Or it was Non-Revolution and me. I was unsure what it really was. Maybe it was my thoughts. My thoughts at one minute about Non-Revolution. About the smell of Non-Revolution. Sweat, urine, sage, pot, rotting food, hay, all mixed together. Perhaps about Non-Revolution’s body. I am sure I am not the only one who has thought it exceptional, but I am also just as sure that by the standards of bodies, Non-Revolution’s is fine but not exceptional. That is the point. That is why NonRevolution is called Non-Revolution, why they have revolution as a possibility in their name but it is a modified and thus negated possibility so as to suggest they are possibly neither good nor fucked.

Still something about Non-Revolution’s smell and body had gotten into me. It was thin except when it was not. And not slight except when it was. It had this odd patch of hair on its lower back. Except when it didn’t. And it tasted slightly sour, off. Except when it was sweet, on. At any moment though, to me, it was like something so excellent I could not get enough of it.

[publisher's note]

Published by Comune Éditions, 2015
Literature