Genesis and a sister.
It could have been so good. You and me. So happy together. No matter how you toss the dice. Meant to be. But you did toss the dice. Gambled on a boy's love for his God. Your carelessness put a thorn in my side, cut a chip into my shoulder, pierced me until I bled water. You took my rib and made another me. Someone to share the limelight spotlight. You guessed we'd just split your love, Old Boy. You sure do move in mysterious ways. It's enough to make you dizzy. The world is spinning too fast around the sun and I'm feeling sick; let me off here. You are so strange, so lovely. I can feel your touch in the daylight where as this new creature here is all moonlight. I hear you whisper in the wind in the palm trees while she sings in water trickling in. You quiz me in birdsongs and belittle me in catcalls, but I don't understand. I heard your voice in the garden and I hid. It wasn't until I tried to avoid her that I discovered that paradise was not boundless, but surrounded by an endless waste. A desert. An endless summer. What a bummer, man.
You made me from pieces. All that I am was once dust. She whispers to me that we were once made up of stars. At night I wonder how long until all those stars become people. My bride is also a patchwork of dust. Our ashes mingle. Her black hair sticks out in freaked out directions, streaked with white. You made her like that. It took me so long to appreciate your craftsmanship.
I saw her sleeping in the garden.
It was time to bring light to the world.
Are you yourself?
Best part of waking up is the thirty seconds or so after you wake up, still half a cat in a bag, two sheets to the broken wind. When I don't remember who I am is when I'm happiest. Before I know who I am, what I've done or what I'm about to do. How about you? You remind me so much of your mother, God rest her soul. Who knows what barstool in Milwuakee her ghost slouches on. I need coffee. Best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup. Your mother would've said my mug was half empty, where you would argue that its half full and I'd just shrug and say who gives a shit anyway?
Sometime the TV just don't move me. I'm so tired of knowing what happens next. Miss the sense of mystery, a childish sense of wonder. Like a boy walking into a dark theater and asking someone to recap all that he'd missed while in the bathroom. If I could do it all over again I'd stay in that fucking bathroom. Then I'd leave five minutes before the film ended so I wouldn't have to hear all the men pissing and coughing and shitting.
I used to breathe ten times with my head between my knees (twenty if it had been a LONG day if you know what I mean) then hold my breath, sit up and plug my vessels with my thumbs, blocking the arterial flow to the brain thus depriving my brain of oxygen. I'd laugh like an idiot. A simple caveman downsyndrome joy as old as galaxies. Nothing made sense. My blood all tingley like a million microscopic triangles were bounding through my veins and bumping the walls as they tumble and go, making sparks; reluctant to return to the heart. And then: show's over. A spectacle of myself collapsed on the floor, nesting in myself. Whatever the man on the TV is saying, I'm beginning to get it. Then I remember to resent it.
My girl is putting the rubber on using only her mouth. Look, Ma! No hands! Where'd she learn a whore's trick like that? Maybe back when she used to strip. Not in clubs, but made house calls, sold herself door to door. There was a bouncer, but he would wait in the car outside where he could be oh so much help if things got ugly with the frat boys or drunk ass Marines on leave. One of her parlour games was "feed the kittie" where she'd have some guy lay down and put a lolly pop in his mouth stick first so that the candy end would go inside her as she squatted down. What a waste of his money and her time.
I'd asked all summer for a bunch of army men. I already had some, but I needed more of those that came from the same mould in Hong Kong. Little plastic frozen green men that hurt when you stepped on them with bare feet in the sleep eyed sandy groggy morning. On my birthday we were out on the porch, sitting in lawn chairs behind the wall of bottlebrush and next to the hot tub where we had goldfish swimming around in it. The adults were drinking beer and I had a cherry RC. After unwrapping a giant pail of army men from my uncle I declared to everyone, "this isn't a very good present." My uncle said nothing, but Mom chastised me immediately. I had asked for army men way earlier that year and now all I could think about were GI Joe with all the multicolors, fully posable articulated limbs and removable gear and interchangeable weaponry. What a drag! Life of the party even back then.
In bed we were parallel: two points of light continuing into infinity, yet never intersecting.
Never cross me. This is how it's done. Head. Crotch. Shoulder. Shoulder. Next verse, just reverse it. The chorus is a Big Spin. Buy a vowel. Make a vowel movement. Beethoven and all his movements. He had a diet rich in fiber and low in saturated fats. Back when fat really meant something, man. Back when peace actually had a chance. Now it's all about a piece of ass. The human ass hams littering the debris of the bomb shattered storefront. The skyscrapers are falling, Chicken Little. You'll just have to take a rain check. A check for the two cents that you badly want to put in. Graffiti your initials on the Book of Life. Unabridged version. Better save your dough, keep your broken bread. Those two cents are for eyes when you sleep which is a dress rehearsal for the big hasta la bye bye.
Building my slow something.
Swimming out to shore. Yours.
Dreaming about fucking like shadowboxing.
to be continued...