Max Kruger-Dull

Bang! Bang, Bang, Bang!

Every artist has a song called Bang. These songs are good for running, light dancing, keeping time, but they never make my head explode.

My mother taught me the word ‘bang’ when she should’ve taught me ‘pop.’ I was four and we were opening a bag of chips and we squeezed the bag like scientists and corralled the air to one side and then the bag popped open, uneventfully more or less, and Mom said, “Bang!” but the bag didn’t bang. It popped.

I try to find bangs wherever I go. But the grocery store can only be so exciting. Sometimes while walking I snap the waistband of my briefs against my skin. The elastic snaps and snaps and snaps as weakly as my fingers.

The only bangs I know of are terrifying and unsafe. Bombs. Gunshots. Are there any others? Sonic booms bang, but I barely know what those are.

When my mother visits, she strolls through the city and I have to slow myself down for her. On these walks, my feet burn and grate against my insoles. I sometimes look around and imagine bangs like I used to imagine my future. I find bangs made out of dog barks, potholes, sample sales. Teeth bang. Knees bang. Apartment complexes bang in the wind.

Once I dreamt I was cuddling an amplifier. The amp went bang. I was smiley and glowing with soundwaves.

Lately I am hearing less. Sounds bounce off my ears without getting inside. So I have my hearing checked. Left, normal. Right, normal. But the doctor’s voice is a putter. My ears are shriveling. Lately I walk slowly by loud construction sites. I like to think the wrecking balls are my allies in excitement. They look ready to punch through the sound barrier. But the balls swing on their skinny chains so slowly. And then they fall still and quiet. 

Splint

With your head resting on my most innocent part, you ask if I have an STD. I say no. But I’ve been asking myself that same question for a week.

For the past week, my penis has felt twisted and tired, blocked somehow, like a fizz is growing there, like it’s in a stage of evolution. I check often for new developments.

Other parts of my body have been changing and changing. As of last summer, a nail on my left hand pops off every few months, growing back unevenly, needing constant redirection. My leg has an indent now, just above the knee, like my flesh is falling through an hourglass. And my elbows have adopted the consistency of sandpaper.

I had my first STD at 15. But my body had felt invaded long before that. My teeth used to rot and rot; I lost six in sixth grade; I never knew which would give up on me next. And then at 15, chlamydia of the throat. When the test came in positive, the pediatrician acted like nothing was wrong. He asked me back to the office and gazed down my throat and said, “Yes, chlamydia. You’re okay.” I cried and felt younger than 15. My mother had driven me to his office that day so he invited her into the room and told her I had strep throat as he handed me a delicious grape lollipop. But in the car, I mentioned the chlamydia to Mom. I wasn’t hiding body changes back then. Mom made sure I finished the course of those giant pills. She handed them to me with a kiss on the forehead. She knew how to care for my body.

My sister believes in the pseudoscience she sees online. She has gotten into the trend of sunbathing naked to get her Vitamin D through her asshole. “I’m strengthening my organs,” she told me recently. She wanted me to sunbathe naked too, holding my knees to my chest, tilting my ass to the sky, begging for rejuvenation. But I worried the sun would turn me to sand.

I had my second STD at 19: syphilis. Even after the treatment, my body felt on edge, like an infection of the penis could lead to the bleeding of my feet, the souring of my eyes. I mentioned the syphilis to three partners and hoped my tongue wouldn’t shrivel.

My most innocent part is behind my right shoulder. Mom used to kiss me there before kicking me out of the car for kindergarten. My shoulders have never had any issues. They are sturdy anomalies.

I miss when Mom cared for my body.

Do other bodies change this quickly? Truths about my body today will be falsehoods tomorrow.

With your head on my most innocent part, I can feel how sick my penis is. It feels like syphilis. Yes. Yes. Something is growing there. Yes. But I still don’t tell you. I’m not ready for another confrontation with my body.

Well, I can see the syphilis on you too. You won’t let your pelvis relax.

My body is hard to discuss. I don’t know what my body is or isn’t, or what it still has, or what will fall away and how quickly.

You fall asleep on the back of my shoulder. I am proud of that spot. It will last a long time. It will be my last part. The bone will be carved into a thin, useful splint.