Hitler's Mustache: One Question in Regards to Memory

There is the question of sleep in Hitler's mustache, how much or how little tilts it toward dream/narrative or dreamscape/escape or whichever thing you imagine, plus whatever thing you imagine. In this way I imagine that Hitler's mustache (at once aware of its place in the canon and hyper-sensitive to solipsism) guides its tongue into the slit of its woman mustache and combs itself like a woman masturbating. In a way it's hot. But it’s real creepy too. Like aging on the human body, like cancer tablets in powder form being sniffed off the back of a dog. This mangy mutt whines at night, sedated by a sedated owl. This owl, this previously un-spoken of owl, this real memory associated with my father, break dancing, violin lessons, Converse tennis shoes, this owl is bristling with a fake, dyed, mustache. A movement toward a new mustache that is so new, so full of scratchy owl hoots, that the hunters listening in the distance begin slopping their way through the forest and yet never arrive at the cotton bikini underwear of eighth grade girls in 1983, never find the dangling, quivering mustache, the achtung, the ache tongue, the shotgun blast in a living room when a bumbling kid shoots his best friend.*

*A child mustache may have been killed by a child mustache.

copyright 2005 Peter Davis. From his new book, Hitler's Mustache
bio
Mag Contents 05