Bruised

Roy Cohn[delirious, under the impression that Belize is the Angel of Death] Can I ask you something, sir?

Belize: “Sir”?

Roy Cohn: What’s it like? After?

Belize: After…?

Roy Cohn: This misery ends?

Belize: Hell or heaven?

Roy Cohn[laughs]

Belize: Like San Francisco.

Roy Cohn: A city! Good! I was worried… it’d be a garden. I hate that shit.

Belize: Mmmm. Big city. Overgrown with weeds, but flowering weeds. On every corner a wrecking crew and something new and crooked going up catty corner to that. Windows missing in every edifice like broken teeth, gritty wind, and a gray high sky full of ravens. Prophet birds, Roy. Piles of trash, but lapidary like rubies and obsidian, and diamond-colored cowspit streamers in the wind. And voting booths. And everyone in Balenciaga gowns with red corsages, and big dance palaces full of music and lights and racial impurity and gender confusion. And all the deities are creole, mulatto, brown as the mouths of rivers. Race, taste and history finally overcome. And you ain’t there.

Roy Cohn: And Heaven?

Belize: That was Heaven, Roy.

Roy Cohn: The fuck it was!

 

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