It happened again in the faded, nascent late spring sunshine. I sat dumbfounded and disarticulated by the transcendent beauty that just stormed into my reality interface. The coffee I was drinking, which like all coffee I ever drink was confirming the existence of a wild, penitent, vengeful and capricious deity. All of these beauties only reinforce that perspective.
She was a visionary, a prophetess, a seer. Wearing the merest hint of a fragmented pair of cut-off jeans. They barely concealed the golden meanness of the curvature of her ass. It was this universally admired ratio of rondure that convinced me the deity had in fact alit on this earthly plane. A visitor to our degraded and deranged plane of existence, a manifestation of the divine here for all of us who attended closely to confirm that it is not only coffee that serves the divine will. It was that curvilinear fantasy, combined with an olive complected expanse of flesh that confirmed divinity. A royal blue tank top and pink tasseled flip-flop completed the costume, not quite the heralded, haloed and hallowed ideal we have all come to expect.
I prostrated myself before her, genuflecting and praying, tearing up and slop spit and slobbering on the exalted and minuscule hem of her raiment. It was starting well I have to believe. For what God or anointed representative therefrom could deny the observant and respectful exaltation of such a holy relic?
She touched me, pressing me back from her, most likely to raise my eyes from those spectacularly tasseled flip-flops to encourage me to lift my gaze to her finely hewn, exquisitely chiseled face. It was so. She lifted my eyes to face her. She was giving me some type or style of benediction I was sure. I was chosen. It was guaranteed.
She spoke very calmly into her Bluetooth headset as she slipped her hand from her understated and refined clutch. A clutch that was neither ostentatiously stuffed nor over-filled. Just precisely right, and she was slipping something yet obscure from it. Grasping my chin firmly, soothing sounds still slid from those blessed lips, and then the hand was free of the clutch and lo, I was to be baptized. She readied the canister, assuring my face was aligned with the holy dispenser and then loosed her divine benediction. A stream of mixed capsicum and mace burst forth, bathing my un-blinkered eyes in the exquisite agony of enlightenment. And in my shrieking, contorted reaction the words she spoke came clear as well. It was a direction to this coffee shop, punctuated with cool calm and collected ‘yes officers’ and ‘please sirs,’ smoothly describing my own clothing and the color of my “wild” hair. I had indeed been chosen, and she was now calling upon the very host of angels to sweep down and take me bodily from this halt/fallen and degraded plane.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Monday, March 09, 2009
latenight makeup
I am laugh. It is night, now, and the waves
sound like traffic in the sand. A whisper, full
of secrets. Like the fort we made
each summer stamping down
patterns of intricacies in the phragmites.
The hollow, sidewise glances, stolen snatched
from the handbag memories. Like the
wrapper of a Tootsie Roll left
grimed and hiding in a fold
of leather worn like
grandmas face in that picture from when I was 3.
sound like traffic in the sand. A whisper, full
of secrets. Like the fort we made
each summer stamping down
patterns of intricacies in the phragmites.
The hollow, sidewise glances, stolen snatched
from the handbag memories. Like the
wrapper of a Tootsie Roll left
grimed and hiding in a fold
of leather worn like
grandmas face in that picture from when I was 3.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
11th post
It is cold up here on this ledge, and I haven’t brought my coat. I don’t think I’ll be needing it. This shouldn’t take long. The thing is, I don’t know what to think, really. Sometimes…Sometimes I think this is probably too dramatic. It doesn’t matter that much. But it does. That’s why I’m here.
The ground is there, beneath me. And my breath ghosts in and out. I thought it would be windier, but the little puffs just float and kind of…dissipate. The snot running from my nose is really cold. Colder than the stray snail tracks these infrequent, shattered tears leave as wakes.
There is a note. There is always a note. It is on my iPhone. In the coat in the locker in the hall that is behind me and to the left. It was too long to text, so I saved it as a memo. They’ll find it. I look at myself wondering, ‘when will they find it?’ and kind of laugh. In that totally detached way you laugh at absurd things. Like when you have too much to drink and are maybe a little high and find yourself kissing people and feeling them up and then it’s like you know that they’re boys too and it doesn’t matter because you feel good and don’t care that people see it because they all had drinks and they must feel good too, so you laugh.
And I want to laugh. But it comes out like a choked laugh, a strangled, drowned laugh that is clinging to a sob to make it out of the water and then it swirlpools down into the sky and the street and the kids down there playing. Remember when it was you down there playing and everything was so simple? You just want it to be like that again, just once more. You didn’t look up and see the big, wide, grey sky ready to swallow it all up. It was just you and your friends and then it’s weird that you’re this detached from it all and you’re talking to yourself like this in the third person remembering like with yourself likeyouweresomeoneelse.
So it’s simple to be back down there with the little kids again. And they are so much smaller now than they used to be. It’s funny. I didn’t think it would be like this; that I just wanted to be a kid again. But there it is, and it’s the truth. I can’t really hear them, and they’re so tiny and innocent.
Then it gets real windy. And those little kids get so much bigger so fast. And it isn’t true; I do not want to be a kid again. I want to be an old man, but now I know that’s not gonna happen. And they aren’t innocent either. They were talking about sucking dicks when I showed up.
The ground is there, beneath me. And my breath ghosts in and out. I thought it would be windier, but the little puffs just float and kind of…dissipate. The snot running from my nose is really cold. Colder than the stray snail tracks these infrequent, shattered tears leave as wakes.
There is a note. There is always a note. It is on my iPhone. In the coat in the locker in the hall that is behind me and to the left. It was too long to text, so I saved it as a memo. They’ll find it. I look at myself wondering, ‘when will they find it?’ and kind of laugh. In that totally detached way you laugh at absurd things. Like when you have too much to drink and are maybe a little high and find yourself kissing people and feeling them up and then it’s like you know that they’re boys too and it doesn’t matter because you feel good and don’t care that people see it because they all had drinks and they must feel good too, so you laugh.
And I want to laugh. But it comes out like a choked laugh, a strangled, drowned laugh that is clinging to a sob to make it out of the water and then it swirlpools down into the sky and the street and the kids down there playing. Remember when it was you down there playing and everything was so simple? You just want it to be like that again, just once more. You didn’t look up and see the big, wide, grey sky ready to swallow it all up. It was just you and your friends and then it’s weird that you’re this detached from it all and you’re talking to yourself like this in the third person remembering like with yourself likeyouweresomeoneelse.
So it’s simple to be back down there with the little kids again. And they are so much smaller now than they used to be. It’s funny. I didn’t think it would be like this; that I just wanted to be a kid again. But there it is, and it’s the truth. I can’t really hear them, and they’re so tiny and innocent.
Then it gets real windy. And those little kids get so much bigger so fast. And it isn’t true; I do not want to be a kid again. I want to be an old man, but now I know that’s not gonna happen. And they aren’t innocent either. They were talking about sucking dicks when I showed up.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Catch Up
I was at a coffee shop. Clouds lined the horizon, grey and dark like boxcars. The sun was obscured and I had recovered some of my sense from a lost year and a half wandering the wastelands of south Texas. I returned to the good graces of my former home town. Houston is a dark and savage place. One should never retreat there, even in pursuit of everlasting peace and redemption, or ones alleged soul mate.
This time it was different. She was wearing a blue jumper dress and a smile like a scimitar. Edgy. The Smiths were playing and I had a million ideas of recuperation dilating through my head. I must speak with her. It was the same story as ever, tics, hiccups and belches. She was charmed, I'm sure. A connection was forged; a psycho-spiritualknowing that transcended physicality and unified three different cosmologies in one lambent and underworlded package of glory and Coltrane type LOVE. Somehow she understood it all, the Tourettes-like bursts of nonsense and vulgarity, the coded ephemera of snorts and giggles that passed for speech in the heightened state of being I had attained.
She was Canadian, obviously, and completely entranced with the idea of trans-species communication. I explored with her the memories I had of teaching sea squirrels how to hunt. She shared that her dissertation (pending approval) synthesized research linking solar flares and the appearance of haiku form poetry in the western Marianas Islands in the twelfth century. Our future plans included a phase shifting domestic pet with which we could create chimera babies in the underground labs that would prove our love.
I immediately set out for the Arabian Peninsula. I had gained expertise in oil research in Texas. I was going to make a fortune, and return to our bunker of love. Three weeks spent wandering the desert vastness left me disoriented and hallucinatory. I awoke on a Yemeni trawler covered in fish scales and apparently betrothed to a reformed animist militant. It was immutable. We married on the dry sandstone cliffs of the Yemeni shores, backed against the timeless cliff dwellings that evade temporality. A lifetime of goat-herding and happiness erased any recollection of my lost Canadian fiancee.
Our honeymoon was perfect, a small cottage high in the Scottish fens. We ate broiled monkey and haggis. Feeding each other like confused frat-boys on a spring break bacchanal. It started to rain. Great sheeting drifts of wet slanting through our intimacies. A stike of lightning scared me straight. I was unable to hold onto my frisky North African soul mate, the deception it required was too much. I tore myself from his impassioned embrace. I ran out the door into the wide open moors, sheep pleading with me to reconsider. The night was endless and spinning as I escaped once again.
This time it was different. She was wearing a blue jumper dress and a smile like a scimitar. Edgy. The Smiths were playing and I had a million ideas of recuperation dilating through my head. I must speak with her. It was the same story as ever, tics, hiccups and belches. She was charmed, I'm sure. A connection was forged; a psycho-spiritualknowing that transcended physicality and unified three different cosmologies in one lambent and underworlded package of glory and Coltrane type LOVE. Somehow she understood it all, the Tourettes-like bursts of nonsense and vulgarity, the coded ephemera of snorts and giggles that passed for speech in the heightened state of being I had attained.
She was Canadian, obviously, and completely entranced with the idea of trans-species communication. I explored with her the memories I had of teaching sea squirrels how to hunt. She shared that her dissertation (pending approval) synthesized research linking solar flares and the appearance of haiku form poetry in the western Marianas Islands in the twelfth century. Our future plans included a phase shifting domestic pet with which we could create chimera babies in the underground labs that would prove our love.
I immediately set out for the Arabian Peninsula. I had gained expertise in oil research in Texas. I was going to make a fortune, and return to our bunker of love. Three weeks spent wandering the desert vastness left me disoriented and hallucinatory. I awoke on a Yemeni trawler covered in fish scales and apparently betrothed to a reformed animist militant. It was immutable. We married on the dry sandstone cliffs of the Yemeni shores, backed against the timeless cliff dwellings that evade temporality. A lifetime of goat-herding and happiness erased any recollection of my lost Canadian fiancee.
Our honeymoon was perfect, a small cottage high in the Scottish fens. We ate broiled monkey and haggis. Feeding each other like confused frat-boys on a spring break bacchanal. It started to rain. Great sheeting drifts of wet slanting through our intimacies. A stike of lightning scared me straight. I was unable to hold onto my frisky North African soul mate, the deception it required was too much. I tore myself from his impassioned embrace. I ran out the door into the wide open moors, sheep pleading with me to reconsider. The night was endless and spinning as I escaped once again.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
586
ZOMBIE BLOG!
Well, a friend reminded me that this existed. I checked around and, it's true. The blog was dead when I arrived. Fortunately, in my peregrinations since last I trod this particular valley of the digital desert, I picked up some knowledge of the voudou. I applied certain of these arcane techniques to the dessicated remnants of the blog and it worked. I owe a certain lady in New Orleans far more gratitude than was initially proffered.
I shall redeem this space.
Well, a friend reminded me that this existed. I checked around and, it's true. The blog was dead when I arrived. Fortunately, in my peregrinations since last I trod this particular valley of the digital desert, I picked up some knowledge of the voudou. I applied certain of these arcane techniques to the dessicated remnants of the blog and it worked. I owe a certain lady in New Orleans far more gratitude than was initially proffered.
I shall redeem this space.
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