Blockage of the written word comes at times like blockage of the bowels and
then there are attempts of various forms to free that up. I was thinking of
forwarding this to you, but had little to offer. I lit some music and
looked out at the miles of blank page and hoped to get lucky.
She came on to me like a black majic ladee. Bent over on the street below
my balcony busy working over a pair of dolls in my own likeness. A single,
wry smirk adorning her red mouth and puffed lips. All of the sudden,
shuddering, I filled right up with pin prick sensations all over. It is,
without a doubt, the most and the best I have felt in a long time. She
controls my arms and I want to shut it all off and begin to swing frantic
like at all the lights in a driven attempt to knock them out.
She wound up in the hospital theorizing about this and that, but mostly how
everyone was out to get her and plotting her demise. One finger was pointed
at me. It was no use. She was forced out the window and got what she
wanted. The greatest price to pay to share the blame.
When the fever comes on like a malaria I have dreams about her, vivid and
telling. She asks how I am and I say I am fine. But I am far from fine.
Outside the leaves are all dying and its getting cold and gray and I am
developing a never before seen tolerance to the coffee which keeps me
forever trying to chase the high only to be let down more and more the more
I drink. And everyone around us is going ape-shit thumping their chests in
strange erotic sexual delight making pornographic orgy groans and grimaces
while everything in my dreams turns into complete shit.
I loved her so much I could've killed her. Some would say I did. But
that's power. Seeing and being all that is. Things that might drive one to
chemical abuse and serial killing. My own shattered firing squad dance. I
contemplated mounting her stuffed body to the wall, just a little left of
the Norman Rockwell shit. This way, upon marrying again, the fading memory
would somehow remain. Making love to the wife on the living room rug and
looking up with a knowing glance. Casually gathering the kids for some TV
sitcom gazing below the glory of well crafted taxidermy. And they wouldn't
know if you were just a prank of some kind and strewn together by only
latex or plastic or rubber. But I would.
This way I might always be reminded of those youthful summers. The times we
got high and took off our clothes and ran around the streets. But there is
nothing left in the glittered silence of the traffic fumes and broken glass
and memories. I did what I did to adapt and survive. Some people go with
the flow but never challenge or chase it.