Don't Let Me Lose This Dream
Sometime between five and six a.m... Sleep is shallow, dreams of the night are reaching their climax, a final crescendo of images; important; the answers are nigh. Usually, but not always, there is a girl. Someone you once knew imperfectly. And there you are, under the trees, the sun's dapples are the spotlights on your stage. And the laughing, and the kissing, and the... the... the...
The clock reads 5:48. You turn over, and in trying to catch the end of that dream you close your eyes. The story is broken, another, less interesting one starts, something about catching a bus, or a plane. You are alone in your dreaming. The world outside is stirring now, the workadays are preparing for their toils. Dream on, dreamer, you will soon rise, and the night's adventures will usually be forgotten.
Usually forgotten, but not always.
If I lose this dream
I don't know what I'm gonna do
If I lose this dream
I'm dreaming about for me and you
If it goes away
I might as well hang it up
'Cause I don't know
If I have the heart or mind
To make it true
Or help it grow
And I only know, I only know, I only know
Don't let me lose this dream
Baby, baby hold on
Don't let me lose my dream,
Baby, baby be strong
A touch of fall in the air, and all those flying insects that decided to wait until marriage to copulate have changed their minds. A trip along the river tonight on a bicycle is asking for a constant bombardment of socializing gnats and midges, like driving through a rice shower (maybe they are getting married?) I made it home, a thorough shampooing reset the population of my personal space to one. That vegan diet I started today didn't last long, however.
The first and last of all sensations.
Your spine rests in a smooth arch, penetrating the darkness with its soft outline. I could trace its contours with the wet edge of my tongue, turning your combination with my passion, and typing your password with the tips of my exploring fingers. I could see your lips in the dark, the rough texture of them spiking the night with their glistening punctuality.
Every word you say will be forever lost in the satin darkness like a thousand dandelion seeds blowing into the wind, never to be found again. Children pick out their forms as they rest among lawn-mown grass and budding golden dandelions ready to be plucked and given to mother. We will let our bodies lie, entangled in their sweat and fervor, writing poetry in the moon light, waiting to be picked like flowers or weeds.
And this is the alpha and the omega, the first and last of all sensations.
Used With Permission
Image: Ed Wood, Jr
Midnight musings on paranoia (see previous post) and a lack of quality stimulation leads to extreme measures. Home alone, scanning the movie listings, the best entertainment option that came up was a midnight showing of Ed Wood's 1956 masterpiece Plan 9 from Outer Space. Supercharged on caffeine, I made the late night run to the Uptown theater where I ran into some of the crew from work (great minds run in the same gutter, I suppose.) Midnight showings are usually off-beat, but this was the "creme de la creme" of bad cinema. We laughed at some of the unintentionally hilarious dialogue and thrilled at the stunningly choreographed action scenes.
But even Ed Wood, in his own mixed-up way, had embedded a political time-bomb into this howler: a valid critique of current American foreign policy. The space invaders, when confronted by the authorities, give an eloquent justification for their actions, citing the refusal of the U.S. Government to communicate, it refusal to respect the rights of other civilizations to exist, its dangerous pursuit of all-out warfare, and how they, the aliens, have had to implement "Plan 9" to save themselves from destruction at the hands of the U.S. The administrations' denials, cover-ups and ineptitude strike eerie parallels for the current situation. The aliens' use of tape recorded messages, attacks on airplanes, and plots involving the gruesome killing of U.S. civilians is another weird twist with modern echoes.
But this prescience is only to be expected, for as the noted TV Psychic and Humbug Criswell intoned at the opening of the film:
"Greetings, my friends. We are all interested in the future, for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives. And remember, my friends, future events such as these will affect you in the future."
I simply must stop drinking coffee after 5 p.m.
Questions? Questions like why am I here, in this small room, with a single overhead light, shining harshly on a long table with a monitor, and a hard wooden chair in front of it, where I sit.
"Still not talking?"
What could I say? I've said it all before, its all down in writing for the world to see, how could I make it any clearer?
"Context, Professor, context is what we wish. All this writing, all the topics, where is the thread, the link, the key?"
The blog! So they've deemed it worthy of attention. I should have known that those CIA hits on the site meter were not accidental. But my work is not political. Is it?
"And those foreign nationals who have written there? One from a socialistic state, no less! We are well aware of your communications with these people, are you to say that your cryptic comments have no hidden meaning?"
I bury my head in my hands. It seemed all so innocent, so positive, just a few years ago. We were going to change the world, and then...
"Still won't speak? We have methods to deal with your ilk, effective methods."
No, I won't talk. Let them beat me, torture me. My life is of small worth, who would notice if I was gone?
"Very well, Batty, you leave us with no recourse...start the film Plan 9 From Outer Space... and we'll see if that refreshes your memory!"
Tunnel Of Love
The Old Mill is the "Tunnel of Love" at the Minnesota State Fair. A water ride, it consists of a half-dozen boats in a sluiceway that is partially underground. Crude tableaux of cartoon characters appear occasionally in recesses set in the walls. There is no thematic order or meaning to their appearance. Millions of kisses have been stolen in it, and more than a few hands slapped. On a warm day the water develops an "aroma"- the whole thing is a throwback to a simpler, less antiseptic time. When the daring couples do emerge, there is often a palpable sense of relief.
And yes, the water is brown...
He Was...She Was...
He was an unstable isotope in a nuclear family...
She was a moderating rod in that reactor, preventing a meltdown.
Fl*pp*sm *s Th* K*y
In Charles C. Mann's article in the current (September) issue of Wired he covers the pheonomena of Splogs, bogus blogs that feed off legitimate sites to acquire "click-through" revenue. Any one that surfs blogs has run into these bizarre-appearing pages, when your own site shows up it can be disconcerting. FITK has appeared on a fake Lindsay Lohan site, there have also been numerous sleazier ones; all using the Flippism name or a phrase from one of the postings here- stuck in in with a bunch of unrelated link words. Google must have done some housecleaning; its search on "Flippism Is The Key" came up free of these vermin. Yahoo was less successful, such sites as Free Scat Porn From Brazil and Stuttering John Dali Lama were some of the least offensive titles. MSN had Pre-Teen Boobs and Koola, a French-language site.
So, what's a poor Blogger to do? I could use asterisks instead of vowels. Th*t w**ld st*p th* pr*bl*m, b*t m*k* f*r * pr*tt* d*mb bl*g. I imagine that an "exclusive" real-blog network could be set up, but that would pretty well chill any new input and make for an insular mind-set. I can see the day when the end of the free ride for bloggers might come, thus making it unprofitable for Splogs to exist. How much would you pay? I know that many of you already pay $2-$5 monthly to maintain your sites. If Blogger charged even $10 a year to its 2 million+ active accounts it could use that money to police the net even more than it already does. A computer algorithm could certainly be devised to read all blogs and forward only the suspicious ones to reviewers (and would that be a mind-numbing job!)
Actually, I've already used the "asterisk option". Since the "Church" of Sc*ent*l*gy loves to sue people, I wouldn't dream of writing about T*m Cr*ise's baby's upbringing in any other way.
Hau Tree Lanai
Our table was next to the beach, in an elegant restaurant about a half mile south of Waikiki proper. Our customary dinner for two would be augmented that evening by an old friend, an ex-coworker of mine who had moved here nearly a decade ago to escape the frigid winters of the northern plains. The three of us, in an absolute paradise. A tasteful jazz guitarist played quietly in the background, filling the occasional spaces in our conversation.
Our guest was quietly stunning in an understated, natural way. Her sparkling eyes reflected the setting sun, her hair, always a bit unruly, was well behaved for once. She declined a glass of wine; she never drank. We spoke a bit about politics, the intensity of her convictions surprised me more than once. We talked a little about the days we worked together, her eyes were fiery then, that was a bad time in both our lives. She spoke of when she first came to Hawai'i- no job, sleeping in a car with a friend- and how she worked her way into a regular job, doing something she loved. "I didn't really have a plan when I arrived," she smiled shyly, "I just had a goal."
As we ate the sun slowly made its way to the horizion, the beachcombers nearby had already gathered their things; when I turned around I realized that we we almost alone- the waitstaff was clearing up for the evening. We paid our bill, and then walked out onto the now-darkened Kalakaua Avenue, through Kapiolani Park, and then past the Zoo where she worked, and finally, to our hotel.
Some farewells are harder than others. When the likelihood of never seeing someone again is strong, emotions are mixed. I wasn't too upset; she was the same person that I had once known, I knew that those who knew her now were having their lives brightened, the way she had once brightened mine.
A poem is never finished, only abandoned.
"What?" she murmured.
Allow me to wear your smile like a smile and your moonbeam like a moonbeam and to not care about imaginary consequences of swimming only 25 minutes after eating. Let me ramble about blue wallpaper and photographs of forgettable people and Rubik's cubes ruined by curious siblings. Permit me to hunger, not for emotional depth or underlying purpose or universal motive, but for a cheese sandwich and a few apple slices, preferably peeled.
Meditate on the growing distance between people and how we can bringthembacktogether.
Shake, candelabra. Dis and re and interconnect with foreign objects in the modern dance.
"Josie could not place qu"otes correctly. Thi"s saddened her greatly. An"d we were the victims of her living letters.
Analog analogies and electric electors and other various variations.
Vicious laundry cycles.
Charon crosseyed raised to the song of the new hyperdeflation.
Learn the rules, then dekonstruct] and play* with it.
That's what they teach us hapless literature students in class isn't it?
That we can do that to our writing and maybe mak esom einteres tingrea dingfo ranyonewh odecid estori skenter inginto this area?
Note: Written under severe nicotine withdrawal. Have not had a smoke since Friday evening. I hope to heaven that I've finally managed to quit.
Used With Permission
"Welcome, Professor, we of Le Spa Lux have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Please to put your baggage (both physical and emotional) down, the staff will fulfill your every need..."
"Come with me, your bubble bath has been drawn, and a glass of Champagne sits next to the tub...just remove your clothing, don't be modest, we girls don't mind, that's it..."
"Hmmmm, comfy? Yes, that's the way, just sink into the Frangipani-scented water... and here is a tray of Bon Bons to accompany the bubbly... and a little music, oui?.. ah yes, Vespertine, I believe its your favorite..."
"'Allo, Monsieur Batty, my name es Fifi, I'll be your masseuse...my my, but she is warm in here- with all zat steaming bath water, you don't mind if I just shed a few things? Zat's better! Now allow moi to gently massage your... temples as you unwind...if you gaze through ze patio doors you will notice ze interpretive danseurs on ze lawn performing Ode to Eros for your viewing pleasure..."
"Time for ze full-body treatment, ze twins will towel you off, aren't zey adorable in ze matching bikinis? I'll make sure zey won't miss any of zose hard-to-get spots... manifique! Now stretch out on ze table... it feels so good, oui?... the warm oil... here and here, and here! And now, for ze happy finish...
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
"Hey baby, wake up!"
"What the... 5:48! Oh, that's right, I have to open at work this week... damn. And I was just getting to the good part of my dream!"
"What dream was that?"
"Ummm. Ah, I forget, something about you and me, someplace nice..."
"Right. Now get up and let me go back to sleep."
My Own Private Glasgow
Barrowland, Glasgow, July 7, 1973
It had been a less than thrilling holiday. My traveling companion and I had spent nearly two weeks in cold drizzle which ended up with us in Glasgow, aimlessly strolling the streets in search of something. Her idea of a UK trip was based on British History, guidebooks be dammed. My travel concept was somewhat less defined.
Travel UK in the early seventies still hadn't quite become the well-oiled machine that it is today, and that is both a good and bad thing. Bad, in that it was easy to fall into a Bill Brysonesque maze of missed opportunities and arcane historical minutiae. Good in that it was easy to escape the beaten path and find (lose?) oneself in culture of a different sort.
Flea Markets and Used Stores provide a grounding mechanism, a way for the traveller to get a taste of local life, an experience that hasn't already been curated, filtered and sanitized to death. Why this place remains etched in my memory, while a dozen museums are but a faint blur says something about the power of the mundane. In the early seventies Barrowland was a fairly gritty experience, it was the only place in the UK where I had a feeling of being "sized up" for a possible mugging (and that fellow's face remains likewise preserved in my mind's eye.) The market here still thrives, as does the adjacent Ballroom.
Another Saturday Night
...Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody,
A ritual in hundreds of cultures, for thousands of years, and billions of people. It could almost be called a rite of passage, except that the ritual is so sloppy. When the aim is internal chaos, how can anything be named as such?
I got some money, 'cause I just got paid...
How I wish I had someone to talk to,
I'm in an awful way"
The work week hard light of mundane reality is softened by a little alcohol, or extinguished by a lot. The Mystery is not revealed, but it cab be ignored for awhile. The results of such actions may be hilarious, or hideous, or, more likely, somewhere in between.
We still indulge. We still meet socially. The cleverest monkeys must amuse themselves and each other. And if the night doesn't end well, that may be something worth experiencing also.
Religion is an adult belief in an imaginary friend.
- Chrissie Glazebrook, The Madolescents.
The bad neighborhood, when I was ten years old, was in a section of town four blocks away- a place where the houses were old, rundown and different from the standard post-war Cape cods that were the homes to the baby-boomers and their parents. We weren't told exactly why that area was a threat, but we were told to stay away. But the creek did wind through it, and fishing in it was a ritual of boyhood. Suckers, shiners, bullheads and crayfish were the standard fare, hooking an occassional snapping turtle would provide a real thrill (they could actually bite off a careless finger!) I didn't go among the houses, staying on the banks and southward, toward the industrial park.
The next year saw big changes. Bulldozers and graders dug up the shoreline. The old houses were, for the most part, torn down. Construction started on what was to be a new school, my junior high, slated to open the year I was to enter seventh grade. My dad was on the planning committee, he had a black leather briefcase which had slides of architect's renderings, a list of all the area's prospective students, and floor plans. This school would sit right in the middle of the formerly blighted area and was named after a Minnesota governor. Progress.
Years later I found out a bit about the now long gone area. The people who lived there called it "Humboldt Heights", after the street that ran by it, or possibly also the areas in St. Louis or Chicago with the same name. The Northside railyards were a few blocks away, and in the last half of the eighteenth and the first half of the twentieth century, the "colored" railway workers had made themselves a community, a haven where they could live in relative tranquility, have a garden, and raise a family. There were always children of color in my schools, not a common occurrence at that time. They all lived in that one area, later they spread out to nearby housing. The demographics of Minneapols have change dramatically since the early 60's, the defacto segregation has, in all but the most exclusive neighborhoods, been eliminated. But that little corner of town is still undergoing changes, the name is almost the same; the goal, a livable community, is exactly the same.
I simply must give a plug to the enigmatic ECS (listed in the sidebar.) Her recent posts have been exceptionally evocative, describing her real-life adventures on my favorite island. Those of you with maritime interests may also enjoy her harbour updates. So here is a big Flippist THANK YOU to her, and to all of my Icelandic "correspondents" who help keep this land-locked prairie dog's dreams of Thule alive.
the author chose not to give a descriptive title.
As I walk down wide roads and dull halls, I see people scattering in different directions.
Then it occurs to me.
They are all headed somewhere.
They all have a purpose.
They have a destination.
I too have made my own plan, chosen my own path, and decided my own destination.
My hands smell gorgeous. Like cigarettes, or nicotine, maybe. Not that I've been smoking... they just smell like it. Does nicotine even have its own smell?
I once heard a song about the city having sex with itself, how the concrete breaks with the movement, the erosive power of it all.
Nothing to hear but the voices of others. It's interesting. and very calming. Calming to know that you are surrounded by others. I listen to their conversations all the time. Conversations about what shoes they bought, or what their mother made for dinner the previous night.
Sometimes, it sucks to want things so bad.
No one to connect with.
I'm surrounded by thousands of kids but I'm alone.
Alone in my mind.
Alone in my spirit.
Used With Permisssion
Half A Conversation
"So, you are going to be in town, after all."
"And the chance that we will meet at last has gone from nil to high."
"This development brings a new meaning to the phrase 'Across the pond'."
"I hope you won't be disappointed when you do see me..."
"I mean, that is to say, well, it's just that I'm old, you know, I won't have that keyboard to hide behind."
"I'll leave the Gore-tex home, at any rate."
"And the hiking boots, too."
"Some dreams come true, but not exactly."
"I don't know what I'm trying to say."
"I'm just me, that's all. Maybe we can have that chat in the café."
"No, no tea..."
"No, you'll be fine. Just be yourself."
"Yes, I'll be there..."
no sounds from within
an occasional creak as the frame changes with the weather
walls which once were a smart stage set for a family's drama
are now only plaster and paint
the crunch of tires on gravel
the windows tremble slightly in anticipation
the ancient lock turns slowly
chirps of surprise
cries of delight
they'll be back
and the play will re-open
and the house will live again
and the sounds will echo
as it should be
as the house lives again
Batty's Alternate Lives, #2
Unknown English Cricket Club, circa 1925
The boys and I pose on the front steps of the club house after a successful match. Think what you may, but as far as I am concerned the high collar will never go out of style.
Fear Of Flying
More reasons in the news today to crawl in a hole and never come out. I've got my ticket already, will the airports still be on red alert in October? Will Icelandair confiscate my bottled water, making me endure the five and a half hour flight on only a few sips of Brennivín? Or perhaps the terrorists would think that Iceland's national airline isn't symbolic enough. My antique camera (Russian!) and its lead-lined film pouch might have to stay home this time. My shampoo collection- no way. My sandals usually make it through, but I already know better than to try and wear my high heel sneakers.
68 days and counting...
As in Dave "Snaker" Ray. I had been reading Dylan's Chronicles and of course, Dave's name came up. It was 1959 when Bob met him, along with Tony Glover and John Koerner. They were all folk-blues afficiandos, Dave was but a teenager when he started playing on the folk stages. In a few years Koerner, Ray and Glover, as they had come to be known, had signed with Elektra Records, were playing the Newport Folk fest, John Lennon was buying (and digging) their albums, and Bob- well, I think you might have already heard about Bob's career. Dave's star was rising as well. As a co-producer of Bonnie Raitt's first album and builder of a recording studio in rural Minnesota, Dave was a force to be reckoned with in the music world. And then it all fell apart, Dave was hit (while stopped!) on his motorcycle, he suffered a divorce, and the bottle was always sure to be nearby.
But Dave came back. He found true love, He dried up, He even worked in the insurance business (long enough to realize he liked music better), and devoted himself full-time to his passion. And he began putting out great music, with new collaborators as well as old. He was a sagacious old master now, and his story-telling only got better with age. He inspired, educated and helped many a younger (i.e., ME) musician and producer. He developed a website full of his slightly bent take on things with lots of photos from his archives. He was gigging a lot, in the Upper Midwest and nationally at blues and folk festivals, alone or with Tony and John.
And then came the x-ray, showing a spot on his lung. He lasted a few months, and then passed away, fighting, and smoking, to the end. But Dave lives on, in his music, in the memories of those that worked with him. The last time he was well enough to play was in November, 2002 at Princeton University.
Still thinking about you, Dave. Your song isn't over yet.
After two years of barely getting by at work, the return of an old account has pushed my work workload to overdrive. The question arises: "Is too much work better than not enough?" Well, yes, barely. I won't have the luxury of imagining myself on the street corner, dressed in shabby clothes, with a cardboard sign that reads: "Will Photoshop For Food" as passer-bys throw unwanted negatives, image CDs or USB jump drives into my hat. The business cycle has finally (after six years!) turned around. Or it may be that so many of our competitors have gone under that our shop is the "last man standing". So, this ink-jet stained wretch has managed to survive to print another day. Only 16 years until I have to start spending my IRA. Yippee.
Awaiting the arrival of The Three Sisters, not the Russian drama, but the real-life one of which yours truly is a bit player. Nominally a birthday party for two of us, this summer get-together is always forgotten about by me until the phone call a week or so ahead of the date, "Jean will be in town, we're planning on getting together for cake and stuff...at your house Sunday about 1:30, what should we bring?"
Oh well, at least we don't engage in fisticuffs... more later...
...later. Survived another one. Everyone ate and drank their fill, little Liam was a chatterbox, and a splendid time was had by all. Liam's mom (my niece) thought I should spend some quality time at her place in Columbus, Ohio. ...hmmmm. Liam's grandmother (my sister) thought I should spend some quality marine time in St. Croix, VI. ...double hmmmm.
Maybe I'll just spend some quality time in Marine-On-St.Croix this fall, listening to a OSU football game on the radio...
Breaking A Sweat
The urge to re-arrange can be overwhelming. After looking for too many things that were right under my nose and then finding them a day later, right where I was looking for them, I had to act. An old desk that was way too big has been reshaped into a usable, two-tier desk of human proportions. With proper drawers and a hanging file there may actually be hope for some order in all this chaos. This project required multiple trips to the garage, the use of loud and dangerous power tools, and sweat.
This "modern life" that so many of us aspire to seems to have eliminated perspiration (except when working out) in our day-to-day activities. Pervasive AC, usually a little too cool, and the rise of sedentary occupations has left little room for hard work by the sweat of one's brow (tradespeople and laborers excepted, of course.) So it was with some celebration that I began to "glow" as I went from task to task. The new workstation is now up and running, a cool Linie is my reward. All my honest sweat will soon be washed down the shower drain. "Work Hard-Smell Bad", and let the devil have his due, soap and water and a little shampoo, shave and a haircut, six bits.
It was a strange rendezvous, this meeting in a funky coffeehouse in Moorhead, Minnesota- and how she ended up on that lonesome prairie was a long story that I was eager to hear. We had graduated together, done a few things in college with each other, and then drifted apart, she was on a career track, while I was spinning my wheels. Then we both got married, she moved away, and then we both had kids, and then- silence. Finally, at the thirty year reunion, we saw each other again, and it was good.
But this meeting was different. A date of sorts, social intercourse reduced to its most basic level: Man+Woman, coffee+pastries, in a quiet+private place to open up and be together. In high school we had shared many moments of comradery, exchanging views on the world and its dilemmas. I was crazy in love with her, but I knew that our paths were to diverge, and after graduation the private school/community college class divisions became all too apparent. There would be some subtle comparing of notes at this affair but I hoped it wouldn't get in the way of our rediscovery.
And then there she was, walking up from her car, and it was good again. The eyes are the window to the soul? They were certainly an ageless constant in her appearance. We selected our light comestibles and beverages and then retreated to a back room, sat down, and let our rivers begin to flow. As we spoke, the music in the background changed from lively pop to more emotional soul, and considering the circumstances, it was appropriate fare:
Me and Mrs. Jones, we got a thing going on,
As the tune ended, I thought I saw a small smile pass over her lips.
We both know that it's wrong
But it's much too strong to let it cool down now.
We meet ev'ry day at the same cafe,
Six-thirty I know she'll be there,
Holding hands, making all kinds of plans
While the jukebox plays our favorite song.
Me and Mrs., Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones,
Mrs. Jones got a thing going on,
We both know that it's wrong,
But it's much too strong to let it cool down now.
We gotta be extra careful
that we don't build our hopes too high
Cause she's got her own obligations and so do I.
Me, me and Mrs., Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones,
Mrs. Jones got a thing going on,
We both know that it's wrong,
But it's much too strong to let it cool down now.
Well, it's time for us to be leaving,
It hurts so much, it hurts so much inside,
Now she'll go her way and I'll go mine,
But tomorrow we'll meet the same place, the same time.
Me and Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones.
Swamp Lake Vision
For additional Boundary Waters pictures, click on the photo above.
New and Improved?
Leaving China on Friday, in Anchorage yesterday, to me, today. My laptop is less than a week old, and has already been halfway around the world. For those of you who are interested in technical details, the new Flippist notebook computer is a White MacBook, 2 GHz Intel Core Duo, 1 GB DDR@ SDRAM, 667 MHz Bus speed, Bluetooth, Airport card, DVD RW, and a bunch of programs that I might actually take a look at someday. It took a really scary picture of yours truly, I think I'll save that for Halloween. Now I just have to install a decent browser (sorry, but brushed aluminum just doesn't do it for me, Mr. Jobs), Photoshop (so I can take my work home-this is progress?) , and my scanner software. And get a file (the raspy kind, not the hard drive kind) to take the sharp edge off the side of the case. Somebody in design was asleep on that one! Otherwise, so far, so good. It runs a bit warm, however, which might be nice in January, methinks a small fan is needed. The keyboard is very good for a nine-fingered typist like me, quite unlike any I've ever used before, fewer typos already! Onward and upward!
Three stories. Disconnected.
Thin strands of hair congregated like rope splinters to hang down in front of his eyes, hanging in the soft summer gravity, making me furious, twitching my hand with primal anxiety.
I awaited the perfect moment to strike and it came so I struck.
Reaching out to swipe the playful strands of hair from his eyes and saying to him, "Life is like the opposite of gymnastics in that the only scores that count are your highest and lowest."
He processed what I said, refined it and refined it like sugar or meat. He turned back to me and said, "Well, I suppose I'm ready for either of the two tonight."
And with that we retired and made love that was altogether somewhere in the middle.
During the next few days I would be overcome by frequent bouts of severe stomach pain.
Driving me to the ground as if, for once, humbled.
My landlord took notice and drove me to the hospital.
Where doctors performed a stomach pump.
And extracted three crystallized butterflies.
Like dinosaurs in tar.
And sent me home.
She crossed her heart and hoped to die and did.
The doctors stating cause of death as a block of blood flow to the aorta.
Cross a heart too many times and it tears like folded paper.
Promises are whores but he was just a man passed off as a boy,
Trying to cut back.
Used With Permission