By DoomDoomDoom 22 Comments
-FOR THE MATURE-
Out of nowhere, or more likely in from somewhere, comes a thought rushing. So pure and brittle to the bent egos of the world that it can’t be of ours. I was writing with a right hand but something told me to use the left and out it slipped when I obeyed, a spiritual geyser of love and harmony in staunch drift-less pursuit of purpose. Purpose comes from purpose with no prime mover or director pulling pale strings.
“You’re here because you wanted to be here “she said with a voice so soft I could hear everything.
This put me at ease.
“Your safe here” her daughter said with those eyes so deep I could see the reflection of everything.
This too put me at ease.
Ease is a funny word, but then again all words are funny.
In an unmistakable ease I now wear my pointy ears proudly and carry a bow in defense of nature. Just the bow, no arrows are needed when protecting something so innocent and pristine. For a right-handed person this is coming out in a very left-hand manner.
What is this, but simply what it is. When your head has been against the wall your entire life it’s easy to forget. Wait, I’m losing track of purpose.
This thought I was speaking of though, the one of pure origin which is too good for digital paper and ink, came to me like lightning comes to dead trees, and surely as they go up in flames so does the mind. So with a head full of fire I took to a pen. Jotted what I could and meditated on the rest.
Blew my nose and tried to light a cigarette against the winds desire. I know what you’re thinking how a self-proclaimed protector cannot protect the nature of himself or herself (I prefer to write with an androgynous state of mind). The wind disagrees with my self-deprecating choice again and wins this time, throwing the smoldering cherry onto my shoe and eventually out.
Here calls my wo/man (there’s that androgynous mind set peaking out again, it’s okay little one). With the shamelessness of a cat I slink in my chair and light another cigarette under my shirt out of the winds reach. I burn my chest. My chest burns. My mind burns. The latter I care for the former only feels good for a moment. Now here’s the question of how to end things. If things end is their importance in beginnings? I hope so. I know so. My mind’s a twisted place with many chasms, subject to spasms, and a similar wish-wash of an automobiles wipers against a…Here comes my wo/man.
I sit on the porch of all porches, watching cyclist, listening to alarms that blanket the air with notes of impending accidents to come, talking to a friend from my drug years. Pushing away the pusherman was never that hard until he was on the lawn begging to be let in. My fix now: caffeine. All wide eyed like one who sniffed too much glue? With hornets around my ankles and horns around my head I drift with one eye closed to the world, one eye open to the sound.
What is it to make love? Maybe this little death I feel is that. When he/she’s not here I feel nothing but the wind. Of the four elements I would be wind, or more likely air, never truly contained by its container, never falsely imprisoned in the lungs for longer than a moment.
Out of coffee and longing for more I hesitate for my hands already shake with each new day. Shaking hands with one is bitter especially when your palm contains more taste buds than your tongue.
“I’ve missed your tongue” she said as I gave it to her generously.
“I’ve missed giving you my tongue” I thought as I spell my name on her clitoris, marking it forever mine
This is my land as much as yours but I feel I carry the weight of the dumb earth heavier than any boulder Sisyphus ever pushed or watched tumble down.
Two hours stand between us, an even number, evenly numb as the shadows ache forth and grip their surroundings with leisure and penance. Where there was two riders only one remains, but I see the laggard coming now, slow and softly the physically weaker of the sexes but the mentally and emotionally stronger.
Every word I know I attempt to use wrongly simply to know its purpose truer, and here we come back to purpose. Is it there without deciding for one’s self? A van passes and ages before me, from the first decade I knew until the present one. Does purpose come with age? Does age come with purpose? The van passes again and this time there is no change in it.
Today I have nothing but questions. Tomorrow I’ll have nothing but answers.
“Check” we told each other.
“Checkmate” I imagine we both thought
That golden ball we pine after, that luminous sphere, which pushes us and pulls us, is nowhere to be seen. I know this story. I know this song. I’ll write both another day though for they will be important later in this. What is this you make ask? This is everything, and everything is nothing. It took a cat to teach me that. It’s amazing what you can learn without words and its amazing words can learn without you.
I love the reversal but as surely as a coin has two sides we forget the edge and slowly the edge will forget us.
I asked my grandpa how he made love stay. It was interesting that a man of few words who prefers solitude to verboseness rambled on incoherently until he came to say “Don’t expect too much, don’t expect too little, find a happy fulcrum and cherish it”.
I asked my grandma how she made love stay. It was interesting that a woman of so many words whose inner monologues must resemble something of Finnegan’s Wake had only one word to say “respect”.
She sits across from me, fixing her makeup, rearranging her freckles, dotting her eyes. I don’t know the terminology behind beautification so, mascara this and rogue that and I imagine it’s all done. It doesn’t take long but I figure when you’re that beautiful and perfect nothing does. She asks to hear my favorite jazz song, Wagon Wheels by Sonny Rollins, I oblige. The sax relaxes and the drums skip, we say nothing. Nothing can be said after one makes such true love to another. I imagine the rest of my life with her in this moment.
“I like this” she says in reference to the music
“I love this” I think in reference to the moment.
The spray of an aerosol hair care product fills the air and replaces the smell of a connection made. What is it about her that makes me write?
Merlot stained teeth gnaw the end of a spent cigarette. There is no connection at the present moment. No phone lines, no Ethernet, no ghost in my machine. All there is now, a chilling wind, a broken pretzel, and a lonely man. Still I’m happy; I take a razor to my wrist and rather than blood, out come kittens and puppies. I play with them till I pass out.
Suddenly I’m awake again and have an inclination towards dropping the androgynous bit for now; I may come back to it later though. Yes, I possess a penis, and intend to use it well. As of lately I’ve used it less to fuck and more to make love, or my version of it, which still has a pinch of fucking dashed in at the end. This woman, this lady, this tall glass of water with a sunflower dropped in, has impregnated me with hope, with reason.
My pinky rests on the backspace key although I’m not sure when or how to use it. Even a misspelled word slips by here and then. I coddle them with my mind; these little bastardized expressions are mine truly. Highlighted by jagged red lines they have a tinge of honesty about them. I still know what I mean but for your sake I correct them (whomever the hell might be reading). I know I’m reading. If I write poorly who will understand and will they think less of me. Will you think less of me? I write wrongs to right wrongs.
Feeling heavy with a meal under my belt, literally, I feel it right beneath the buckle; I sway in a rocker and ease smoke into my lungs. The cat sleeps near my feet as I think of the mistakes I’ve made in my life. What are mistakes that you have yet to make? What happens when you’ve deemed something a mistake and realize this event you’ve addressed as a mishap since its inception into the time line (which is a circle by the way) had its purpose?
Onwards we go, forth back and fro. Can you tell yet I hate rhymes? I was told once if you were going to rhyme; do it throughout a piece (this might be a piece). I would hate to bore everyone with my failing grasp of the English language, meter, syntax and the sort so I refrain. Let’s just forget that first sentence. Let us start anew.
The phone rings. It’s her. I light up like god’s birthday cake with its infinite candles.
Changing gears so hard I drop my mental transmission and realize, the only reason your teeth are still in your mouth is because I’m a good man. You’ve hurt someone I love and now I intend on hurting you.
I’m sweating now; I’m sweating out the impurities of my existence. The heat is almost unbearable. The bitter apple in my mouth taste ever sweeter. I’ve got to stop letting my mind roam as I write, I should be more concrete…Fuck that, this is how I write and I won’t help you understand. Pinkeye tulips turned in the wind, read backwards as love. There is nothing but me here, fingers flying, and a mind on fire.
I’m not the traditional cowboy but I like to still consider myself one. A cowboy in that I roam. Wait, maybe that’s an outlaw, an outlaw in that I roam.
Let me know how you feel about this. questions? answers?