Saturday, October 5, 2013

Still Life with Light Post

Twenty-one, he was fucking twenty-one, what the fuck did he know, what the fuck could he know, he was only twenty-one, he was.  He didn’t know shit. 

He didn’t know about love or love found or love lost or love spoken.  He knew love songs, had heard them on the radio, had heard them at parties, had even sung them whilst scrubbing himself in the shower, but he didn’t really know love.

He had read about love, he had read poems of love, he had ready silly Gibran and Rumi verses, he had sat sprawled on bean bag chairs thrown about the dens, the basement play rooms, of girls he knew, listening to Janis Ian and James Taylor and Dan Fogelberg sing about love.  He had written his own poems of love, of love unrequited, of love forsaken, of love’s metaphors, of love’s lost language, but he didn’t really know love.

He knew about the birds, and the bees.  He knew that he was ok, she was ok.  He knew about her body herself.  He had heard that Jesus loved him but, unlike the song, he didn’t really know it, he didn’t really feel the love that Jesus was spreading, spreading like a dark, warm molasses all about him.

God may indeed have been love.  He didn’t really question this, just didn’t feel it, just didn’t know it.

He thought he had found love, wild, exotic love, tiptoeing through the tulips love, bohemian love, thought he had had it tucked neatly away in a soft little leather change purse, borrowed from his grandmother’s den, found under the cushion on the couch, thought the latch on the pocket purse clipped tightly shut, kept safe in the drawer along with his socks and handkerchiefs.

But his head was foggy, his head still spun, from leftover lunar lunacy, and he knew not what he did in the humid afternoon, so he forgave himself and those around him.

Midday gnats and flies buzzed by, circled round and about his counter-buzzing noggin, then left, then were replaced by others, more so, less so.

He stumbled down the walk, he stumbled down through his day, he stumbled down through what he did not know, and he knew, he just knew that he did not know love, not at all.

He knew one thing, though.  Well, maybe he didn’t really know it, maybe just felt it, felt it down deep, way down in the gut deep, bowels deep, hanging heavy within his balls deep, a stirring, perhaps more of an urge, maybe more of what could have also been the name, probably it was indeed the name, of some seventy’s metal pop band, some raging desire, he had a raging desire.

Hell, he had a raging hardon.

He woke up with a hardon in the morning, and he’d jerk off in the shower.  He’d get an erection on the bus to class, he’d get an erection during class, especially when little miss punker southern belle with the short-short skirt and the short-short hair would lean over to pick up something, anything, a pencil, a pen, a penny, two bits, a love letter from some secret admirer, goddamn, he daydreamed of loving him some blue eyed funky fried chicken love all hot and greasy, goddamn, goddamn. 

He’d get an erection hanging out in the quad, smoking a little weed, doing a little free-styling with disk and silicon, spinning, spinning, disk spinning on finger through the air around the back under the legs, oh, my, oh, my, sometimes he felt like he could spin that disk right on his everstiff cock.  He got an erection on the bus to work, he got an erection thinking about the titles of the movies on the marquee above Plaza Theater on Ponce de Leon, such spank bank satisfaction, he got an erection as he walked through the doors of Victoria Station and said, “hey,” to the hostess, she reminding him of his First, an older, vampish, voluptuous, brunette.  He got an erection as he tied his apron around his waist and began rolling up place settings in white linen.  He got an erection from the warmth radiating across his palm and up the inside of his arm, the warmth of the plates upon which lay thick, fresh-off-the-grill slabs of seared steer.  He got an erection while he counted his tips at the end of the night.  He got an erection when he stumbled getting off the bus in front of his place on Ponce de Leon, back full circle, across the street the Plaza Theater sign glowing with its yellow edges.

He was a kid, he was twenty-one, what’s a kid to do.

He was fucking twenty-one, what the fuck did he know, what the fuck could he know, he was only twenty-one, he was.

Where was he to take this phenomena, his forearms already Popeye’d from mastubatory mania, a mélange of maneuvers and mayhem following him from sheets to shower, he didn’t get weird about it, like Tom Waites had said, had sung, he didn’t get weird about it and tie himself up, he would simply make the scene with a magazine, self-satisfying self-pleasuring self-love, yes, it’s a sin, yes, it’s strange, yes, he’s going to hell, yes, he himself is driven to disgust, but where was he to take this raging desire?

Maybe it began all the way back sometimes during his fourth year, when he had come across a little black book that his dad had misplaced, a nineteen sixty-three appointment book that had, at the beginning of each week, a black-ink, single-lined, single-panel comic that dealt with something sinfully sexual, usually a cocktail toting man wearing a tux sans pants, his cock hanging low, and a big-haired buxom woman, topless from waist up, her tits praying heavenward.  A reader at four, he remembered taking this exciting window into the forbidden to his bed, as he would one day try with every woman he knew, knowing even then that sin spun amid and amidst between and betwixt his innocence, taking in every detail of the text, the one-liners, trying to discern the meaning, trying to understand, but understanding nothing but the fact that he had an erection, a little stiffie that felt good to the touch, his touch.

He couldn’t take this to a girlfriend, not his girlfriend, hell, they had broken up, several months ago, she had gone away to Paris to play for the summer, abandonment, no, not really, ‘twas such a sweet parting, yes, sweet and longing, his erection well tended, but, still, she left, got on a jet plane, promised to come home again, and he got an erection the moment she disappeared, shit, he was twenty-one, she went away, like, for months, he got an erection, shit happens, shit happened, probably fucked someone he should not have fucked, probably, well, there is that right, wrong thing, what harm was done, no malice intended, all about the love, love the one you’re with, whatever, shit happens, he got an erection, he fucked someone he wanted to fuck, and she wanted to fuck him but, as it goes, as it went, others didn’t find it so quaint, did not give a grin and a wink, hey, who said that morals went out the window in the seventies, apparently a few might have held onto theirs, she did, his girlfriend, she did, and he got an erection, shit happens, shit happened, he has an ex-girlfriend, he broke her heart, she broke his heart, shit, it happens.

And, so it seemed, starting about then, starting about that time when his sweet and bitter Canadian chick-a-dee-dee, when she decided that she simply “couldn’t do this anymore,” whatever “this” might be at any particular moment, because she just “couldn’t get past this,” so she left, kicked him out, whacked his heart, whacked his ego, whacked his belief in god, the father, the son, the holy ghost…

Whacked his pee pee…

Whacked his belief in love, whacked his ability to really think straight for a while, got crazy thoughts, dropped out of college, went home, thought he’d be a writer, one of those southern writers, write about southern shit, swamps and shit, hunting and fucking and fighting and drinking and trucks and tube tops and cut off short-shorts and floppy tittie fucking, and so it seemed, starting about then, starting about that time when that Canadian girl broke his heart, starting about then, whenever he got an erection, shit, it happened.

So he had no girlfriend, but, still, he was only twenty-one, what the fuck did he know, what the fuck could he know, he was only twenty-one, he was.

He had gone home, gone back home, broken heart home, he suffered great emotional pain, he went all emo, he wrote love poems like some pathetic fool, he did a lot of mushrooms, he went into the swamp with his erection and he jerked off with the snakes and alligators and hoot owls and armadillos and crows and raccoons and turkey buzzards.

Carlos Castaneda, cracker class.

He hitchhiked to New Orleans with his erection, meandered down and through the ball sack of the country that bled down to our great common cock, the grand state of Florida.  He caught a ride from Valdosta, down the back roads, through Monticello, and stopped at the dog track.  He saw a frisky greyhound with his bright pink erection try to schtupp the rabbit.  He caught a ride from the track on over and down to Tallahassee, woke up in the backseat of a nineteen seventy-one Malibu sitting in a Denny’s parking lot, and he couldn’t remember what the driver looked like so he snuck out, locking the doors behind him. 

He caught another ride to outside Mobile, then he hopped a ferry on over to Dog Island, where he hung out for a day on the beach, where he struck up a conversation with an elderly white couple, just out for the day themselves, talking about the differences and similarities of South Georgia and Southern Mississippi, about Southern writers, about their sultry style of love propped up by violence and confusion and ignorance and truth.  They gave him a ride, back over on the ferry and on over to Biloxi.  He caught his last ride with a crusty old redneck, swatting away his meandering hands, their wanting to go from stick shift to dick shift, and the cracker dropped off near an old cemetery, in the midst of a misty rain.

He walked this way and that,  then whoa, whoa, whoa, crossed over some mystery street into the French Quarter, in the end not too far from the cemetery of sin.

Here, he discovered Yat pussy, passed out drunk in Jackson Square behind a bench at the edge of the shrubbery, woke up only slightly less drunk still in Jackson Square, the sun long up, woke up to an angel singing, there she was, rings on her fingers, bells on her toes, she played guitar and sang off-key, but her red hair and green eyes were cotton in his ears and her words a feathery fickleness that tickled his balls.

She so sweet, like the sugar in this tea.  She so sweet, he bet the chiggers won’t even nibble on that smooth white canvas stretched out so tight, so smooth, across her slightly rounded shoulders, marred, nay, enhanced, by thousands upon thousands of golden brown freckles.

His erection did the Scooby Doo Twirleroo and he was lifted, lust-love-anti-gravity full-body hover, lifted from his leaf, grass and soil bedding.  His feet not touching ground, he danced along, drifted along, on sparkles, on puffs of damp, musty air.  Feet found firma and toes grabbed grass, did the Freddie Flinstone twinkly toe tundra tickle til he came to a stop, steadying himself before her, he and his erection bowed and his lips simply smiled.

He slipped a piece of paper into her open guitar case, a crumpled piece of notebook paper, smeared with pencil and maybe ash, a brief poem written, sketched, etched, a line, three, five, written sometime last night, sitting at some bar, at some table, in the back, in the corner, in the dark, angry erection bumping the bottom of the table, cigarette dangling, he was a fucking artist, worse, he was a fucking artist who suffered, lovelorn, pussified, grimacing drunkenly at the world, mumbling beneath his breath, scribbling, scratching, he kept pockets-full of nubbly pencils so people would think him what he knew he was, a dedicated artist, a writer, a man of the people, hell, might not shave again today, either, he slipped a piece of paper into her open guitar case, a crumpled piece of notebook paper, smeared with pencil, a brief poem written,

Fuck my body,
Then fuck my heart
With a simple morning smooch,
A ta ta la dee da and
A promise to see me next week.

She, his beautiful chanteuse, beautifully busking beneath the greying, late morning sun, fingers frolicking to and fro along the strings, she looked down, singing her song, she can see it, she can read it, she reads it, she smiles, she smiles that smile that says, baby, I’ll give you more than a smooch, I’ll hold you in the morning, hold you tight, squeeze you tight, make you forget all about the pain,

And so he said, ok.

And, she took his hand and he and his erection followed her across the park, and up St. Anne, all the way up St. Anne Street, almost to Rampart, down some little sidewalk alley between two buildings, the cool, damp darkness providing some sort of brief relief from the soon-to-be-noon heat til they climbed the stairs in the back, up another flight, then across some porch, stepping over a flower pot that seemed more of a casket for the tiny dried til crispy azalea, a twist of a key, a step inside

She poured him a jelly jar full of red wine from a jug, poured one for herself, told him not to drink it yet, scurried out from the kitchen, feet padding, slapping down an unseen but what seemed, sounded, a bare soft pine floor, an opening, shutting of a drawer, a shuffling of papers in between, a scuffling return, he hadn’t moved, the jar still in his hand, she said,

Open your mouth, stick out your tongue, and he said, what, and she said, just do it, and he said, why, and she said, do you love me, and he said, but I just met you, and she said, yes, but do you love me, and he said, yes, I do love you, and she said, so, open your mouth, stick out your tongue, and

He did, and she placed a small square of paper on his tongue, and she said,

OK, you can close your mouth, now, and swallow, and then kiss me, and

He did, and, then she put a square on her tongue and swallowed, and kissed him, and said,

Hey, let’s go into my room and sip wine and kiss some more, and let’s do that for a long, long time, and then a little longer, and he said, OK, and

They did. 

They went back to her room which became their room, for a brief long time, and he went shopping all through and around and amongst her lovely bodega, he went tripping and stoned with the serious munchies, pushing, pulling, pushing his big cart full of curiosity, looking up and down the shelves with an awe and a desire to sample, appraise, assess, compare, contrast new treats, novel, tasty, sweet and spicy extravagances, pulling pudding and peppers down, flinging flour as if he were the pope slinging incense, selling indulgences, popping open the row upon row of tall, red, white-capped cans of whipped cream and breathing in all the nitrous, spinning about til he was dizzy.

Her red became his life blood, she pulsed and his heart pumped, and he counted every one of her freckles, picked them all up, one at a time, licking his thumb, gently applying it to a freckle, a single freckle, rolling it off, oh, so slowly, lifting it off and giving it a bit of a puff, watching it drift down onto a shallow porcelain dish, then again, and again, until he had lifted every freckle from her body.

Then, he shuffled them up, and scattered them back around her shoulders, cheeks and ass, a dusting of confetti left sparkling in the glow of the setting afternoon sun.

Then, a sigh, and a rustling of sheets, and his cock in hand, a bursting spritz into the toilet, and a shake-a-shake-a-shake, a dousing of water upon his face.  He expected the classic melting into the mirror, but his eyes merely changed colors, from brown to red to purple to blue to green to yellow, a pale hepatitis yellow that glowed from within, from behind.

He knew that he had just returned from a magical place, a wonderful land of fruit and honey and playful puppies and clouds, gentle clouds.  He knew he was back.

The sink had rust stains striking coppery paths up from the drain, and the mirror had a brownish flaky corner, and the light bulb hung from a cord down into the middle of the slightly off-square room, and a cockroach scurried down the wall, diagonally, away from him, toward the back of the toilet.

And, only a few minutes later, his head was foggy, his head still spun, from this leftover lunar lunacy, and he knew not what he had done in the humid afternoon, in the previous evening, the beginning of day, so he forgave himself and those around him.

Midday gnats and flies buzzed by, circled round and about his counter-buzzing noggin, then left, then were replaced by others, more so, less so.

He stumbled down the walk, he stumbled down through his day, he stumbled down through what he did not know, and he knew, he just knew that he did not know love, not at all.

He didn’t really feel the love that Jesus herself was spreading, spreading like a dark, warm molasses all about him.  He didn't feel the love, nor any of that.






2 comments:

Holden Taylor said...

took a very sudden and extensive phallic turn, love ya pops.

John said...


Outstanding blogging......
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