0fu

4. The Requisite Minion Twitterings.
Work. I work in a semiconductor fabrication plant on the perpetual verge of bankruptcy. They call me in whenever someone calls in sick or they need to run the machines all night to fill an order. The work sucks and is infrequent and the pay’s all right. I scrape by, and ever since Duck found out I have access to a certain chemical I haven’t had to pay a dime for room and board.
The place is run down and slipshod, EPA test-marker flags riddle the lawn. Every day I come here I wish this place would finally get shut down, but management always seems to hide the truly noxious stuff before an inspection.
I walk into the main building. The old man is waiting for me.
“You are LATE!” he looks meaningfully at his watch “One hour sixteen minutes LATE! This is Unacceptable!” its best to just let the old man seethe. Run himself down. Zoey hates him because he hires illegal aliens and treats them like chattle, making them do jobs that will almost certainly give them cancer later. I hate him because he’s a crotchety cantankerous shit-heal who likes to abuse his underlings, namely me. Everyone calls him the old man, I don’t know what his real name is. He does sign my paychecks though.
‘Sorry, I missed my bus transfer.’
“Being late is UNACCEPTABLE, not calling in to say that you’ll be late is UNACCEPTABLE.”
‘…sorry?’
“Do you like your job?”
‘Its fine.”
“Do you want to keep your job?”
‘…sure.’
“Then you will not be late from this point on, you understand me?”
‘yes…I understand.’ I scuff the carpet with my shoe, try to look properly chastised.
“Then get on the saws, NOW. There are two runs already backed up and they need to go out by end of business today.”
‘Yes sir.” I start to walk past him.
Satisfied that his brilliant management style has yet again proven effective, the old man takes to time bathe me in his appraising glower.
“Boy, you look like hammered shit, you sick?”
‘Just tired, not a lot of sleep, I’m fine.’
“Well get some damned sleep, after you work your shift. I don’t want you scaring any potential clients.”
No client has visited this plant since Microsoft was just an insult to one’s masculinity.
“Well, get going, those damned wafers won’t cut themselves.” Timeless wisdom, a parable for the ages.
I beeline to the punch-clock, punch my card. Exit our hero, stage left, thankful to have gotten off light. Somebody had undoubtedly caught a full blast of the old man this morning, he doesn’t recharge as quickly as he used to.
I feel defiled, trod upon: it’s a living.
Today I’m working in phase 4, room 12: the saw room. This is my favorite: Alone in a sealed and sanitary room, nothing but me and the sound of eight diamond blades screaming through silicone. Take wafer from slot, affix it with hot wax to the backing plate, place in saw, activate suction clamp, align the space between the chips to the saw blades, press go, repeat. Mindless semiskilled labor: a monkey with a button am I. I use the drudgery to think about last night and get nowhere. At lunchtime I slip the thermos out of my pack and sneak out the back entrance. Nothing unusual there, my workmates are used to me being anti-social. I approach the chemical shed, this is the really iffy part: if any one happens to see me go in or is watching the video camera aimed at the door then I’m fucked. I usually only do this when I work graveyard, hardly anyone around, no management, easy money. Its high noon now and I’m almost to the door, a big lumbering meat sack with this thermos huge and conspicuous in my hand. If I don’t do this Duck will almost certainly freak out, and after a Duck tantrum the old man seems as placid as a bodhisattva. Fuck it. I open the door, step through. Every time I go inside the chemical shed I can’t help but be amazed. They keep this shit in a shed, an unlocked fucking tin shed. If some of these chemicals were to blow it would unleash a fireball of almost atomic proportions. Hydrofluoric acid. Ether. Jesus. Fifty-gallon drums of this shit, laying around in an un-insulated, un-airconditioned shed. The mind reels. Trichloroethelene: you can’t even buy this stuff anymore, its beyond carcinogenic. The old man’s nefarious connections drive it in at two o’clock in the morning on an old farm truck. I walk down the rows of fiery horrible doom until I find it, the anhydrous ammonia. I kneel next to the steel drum, unscrew the cap from Ducks specially-made thermos, hold my breath, open the spigot and poor, watching the vapors billow out. There’s a little bobber inside, when I see the little metal flag pop out I close the spigot, screw the cap back on, and get the hell out of Dodge. I peek out the door, give the grounds a quick reconnoiter: no ones around. Slip out, close door, do my best secret agent stroll to the back door of the Phaze 4 building, put the thermos in the fridge and clock in early, no one will mind. If I mentioned to anyone in management that a minimum thirty minutes of lunch per full work shift is required by law, they’d look at me like a puppy ponders at a ceiling fan. No one would ever complain about such anyway, most people who get hired here are grateful just to have a job.
I spend the next four hours trapped in the saw room, cutting wafer after wafer, expecting the old man to storm in with an entourage of brutish police officers. I imagine his vengeful wrath, the ensuing pummeling from well-bribed nightsticks. My shift ends, the last wafer cut and sent to the cleaning room, and my wrists are thankfully free of handcuffs. I casually retrieve my thermos, put it in my pack and go to the main building to clock out. My back aches from eight hours of hunching over obsolete machinery. I look at the time on the front of the punch-clock, 5:46 pm: the apex of afternoon rush hour. No way in hell am I riding the bus right now: The remnants of this morning’s multiple conflicts still careen through my stomach, threatening to sicken me with aftershocks. I’ve had a busy day. I should make Duck come and get me if he wants this stuff so bad. No, that could be a very bad idea. Better I just walk to the coffee shop a couple blocks down, get a strong chia latte and kill some time, wait for the bus traffic to thin. The ride home is never as bad. A quick jaunt though the dark heart of industrial America, turn a corner, and I’ve arrived.
The Kharma Café is a tiny bistro nestled in the bottom corner of an office complex. Its hella busy around lunchtime and 2 hours before or after as people sneak in a cappuccino on their break. Come here after business hours though and its all but deserted-everyone except me has someplace better to go. I walk in and head towards the counter. I like this place, dark, small, completely devoid of patrons. Horrid paintings cover the walls, the owner’s daughter makes them and hangs them up, hoping to be discovered. She’s the one tending the counter, popping gum, looking a bored that only comes through hours of practice. I tell her my order in slow clear tones, lay a five on the table. She barely acknowledges my existence, looks around slowly for something better to do, then takes my money from the counter. She doesn’t even attempt to make change. This relationship of mutual apathy and loathing has been carefully cultivated and is one of my most cherished human interactions.
Retreat to a corner table, pull out a dog-eared Bukowski novel, and prepare the next couple hours for sacrifice. I’ll stay until the place closes and the girl clears her throat in conspicuous annoyance, standing next to the door held open just for me. Already she’s coming over with my drink. that was quick. The process of adding powdered chia mix to milk and steaming it is usually so arduous and tiring for the poor cashier/barista/impressionistic-hack that I will not get my beverage for at least half an hour. I don’t look up at her as she approaches, just tap my finger on the table where my chia should go. She sits down in the chair across from me.(odd) There no delicious offering of savory tea for me, she is just sitting there. This break in established decorum is most unwelcome. I look up, intent on asking her what exactly is going on.
I look up and stop. Dead.
The counter-girl is rummaging for milk in the refrigerator below the coffee machine.
This girl sitting here, a slight superior smirk on her face: I recognize this girl.
“You remember me.”
Yes
I do.
I remember her.
I remember everything.

5. About Last Night.
Duck’s. Usual crowd. Business casual meets construction formal for earnest orgy. Portishead pours through the jukebox, sad and succubitic and at just the right volume. A note scrawled in black magic marker is stuck to the glass with yellowing scotch tape, obscuring the available song choices almost entirely.

TOUCH THIS MACHINE WITHOUT MGMT. PERMISSION:
DIE SCREAMING.
WE LIKE IT WHEN YOU SCREAM.

I sit in the usual booth with a subset of usual suspects. I tolerate their presence, basking in my own munificence for allowing them to sit at my prime real-estate table. I practice ignoring their various mouth-noises and think about nothing in particular, just sit back, observe the show.
There is a line to get in almost every night now. Duck likes to keep as much of that line inside as possible, sectioning them off from the crowd, taunting them with their inability to get into a bar so inexplicably popular. His current set of counter measures also includes the careful choice of doorman. He stations the doorman (to date there have been no women) at the end of the line behind an official looking podium, and bequeaths unto them the most sacred of responsibilities: to scrutinize the ID’s of the conspicuous, the drab, the hopelessly ugly, and deny admission on a purely arbitrary and whimsical basis. The rewards of the job are vast, but the slightest failure is met with swift and brutal punishment. The turn over had been incredible, Duck didn’t really know what he wanted. Sometimes the doorman would be replaced four times in a single night. The guy who now fills the position has lasted five days straight: an undisputed record. Duck lavishes him with gifts of money, praise, and any substance he might desire. I must admit, the lad does show a remarkable talent for the job.
“This drivers license is a forgery, and you are obviously too young to be here, I’m afraid you have to leave.” He hands the banker/broker/whatever back his ID.
The man looks at him in uncomprehending shock. “I am 43 years old.”
“Your lies are transparent and unappreciated, we run a respectable establishment and do not condone the delinquency of minors. Please run along now, as other citizens with the legal right to be here are waiting.”
“Look man,” the guy flips through his wallet “this is a picture of me with my wife and son, this is my debit card, my gym membership, this is my insurance card for Christsake. You know I’m old enough to drink here. I was just here 5 days ago.”
“It is apparent to me now that you are severely unbalanced and pose a grave danger to yourself and those unfortunately around you. We here at Duck’s have neither the facilities nor the requisite training to attempt the healing of your diseased young mind. Please use the door behind you conveniently marked EXIT, turn left, walk down two blocks until you see a screaming man with a piece of cardboard duct-taped to his chest. Read the message on the cardboard carefully as it contains secret instructions especially for you. Give the man twenty five cents and try to accept Jesus into your heart.”
Some people in line are starting to snicker. The burly slab of bouncer that now accompanies the doorman because of repeated threats of various levels of violence slowly shakes his head in the general direction of the offending noise.
“you will leave immediately or I’ll be forced to call the truant officer or whoever it is who enjoys abusing wayward boys these days.”
The man stands there, his mouth a bit slack, apparently unsure what is required of him.
“The exit is behind you and slightly to the left, Don’t make me get my belt.”
Amazingly, I think the guy is going to try and stand his ground.
“If you do not vacate forthwith, you will be forcibly ejected. I have been authorized by the state board of education to administer corporal punishment. This is your last warning.”
The bouncer takes a small step foreword. The man mumbles obscenities under his breath, turns to leave. The doorman plays a quick game of tick-tack-toe with himself on a memo note, gives it to the next girl in line, puts his index finger to his lips in a conspiratorial ‘shhhh’, and nods her through. Duck looks on in absolute adoration. If I didn’t know better I would swear he was in love. Someone at the bar asks him to make an apple sour. He tells them to leave the premises and never come back.
“You’re good, you’re good, you’re bad, very bad, but I’ll let you in anyway. You there! Let me see a valid form of government issued identification immediately.”
The girl gingerly paws through her purse, knowing she’s probably fucked, but hands over her wallet anyway.
“Hmmm, it says here that you do not actually exist, and therefore cannot possibly enter the premises. Please return to whatever vortex spawns your demon kind.” He returns the wallet to her hand with an audible slap. I think she might be starting to cry as she walks out. This affect has not been uncommon.
“Next, yeah your fine. You too. Yes, I am talking to you. Go buy lots of overpriced drinks and wake up in the hairy arms of another man. Unless you enjoy waiting in line, which I can understand completely. We will now pause for station identification.” He stands ramrod straight, a look of utter bliss on his face, his left hand snapping to his brow in the approximation of a military salute. The bouncer strokes his chin with a beefy hand and looks meaningfully at the ceiling. Two minutes pass. The doorman abruptly eyes at the beautiful pair of secretaries next in line. “Thank you for shopping. We appreciate your business. Please have a drink at the bar. Ask for the Duck special” He waves them through. “You too may pass, but only if you return immediately with an offering of expensive liquor in a large glass. You have two minutes to comply. You! You too may proceed to the delights that await within. You, however, must tell me the capital of North Dakota.” The doorman cocks his head, waits. “You are trying to answer with the powers of your mind but in this instance I must insist on a vocal response.”
“Uh, Charleston?”
“Such miserable guesswork is a discredit to your species. You are henceforth banished until you complete a geography course at a community college of your choosing. Admittance will only then be granted with written proof of a passing grade. Don’t think I won’t remember your face.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s not even a State Capital. The previous offer is hereby rescinded. Be gone with thee,
your presence makes me queasy in a naughty place.”
The bouncer uncrosses his arms and rubs his fist menacingly, intentions of physical violence obvious. The potty mouth has wisely decided to exit.
“You though, I like you, you’re not like the others in the trailer park. You may enter. Enjoy the fish.”
Someone walks up tentatively to the doorman, a tall glass in his hand.
“Here is the expensive liquor as you requested, sir.”
“Bless you my child,” He takes the glass, holding it up to the light, appraising its contents. “Your entrance into this holy place was not in vein, despite what it says in your file. You get a gold star and five bonus points, use them wisely.”
He takes a drink, grimaces grotesquely.
“Sheeeeit, I think my left testicle just dropped.”
He drinks the rest of it down in 3 big gulps with no apparent affect, picks up the blank memo note pad, ponders it, turns it sideways, nods gravely.
“Well gentle-folk, it appears that we’ve reached our capacity for the moment. You are welcome to stay on hold or call back at any time. Remember that in the case of an emergency the thing falling from the ceiling will most likely kill you. Thank you Charleston, Goodnight!
He executes an intricate handshake with the bouncer that ends in a formal Buddhist bow and leaves the mountain of flesh by the door to keep the mob at bay. He slowly and pimp-limps through the crowd to the bar and Duck’s exuberant clapping.
I’ve been a bit of a fan-boy ever since he first started working here. Some people are born to greatness, he was born to be a doorman at Duck’s. In truth his effectiveness in the position is beginning to become counterproductive. Some people show up just to wait in line, knowing they won’t be admitted-they just want to watch his antics. When he does finally tire of abusing the natives he goes to the bar and gets immediately sloppy drunk. The nectar of words that then flows from his lips soon reaches unknown heights of strange. Duck hangs on every utterance, countering with his own version of witty repartee, making sure that his star employee wants for nothing. If some poor fool makes the mistake of trying to order a drink while Duck is in the depths of reverie, they are lucky to merely get banished from the bar. Duck has been known to throw bottles of liquor at the heads of paying customers for no apparent reason whatsoever. Then there are the times that he really flips out. Amazingly, no lawsuits have yet been filed, knock on formica.
Usually I’d delight in spending the evening in vicarious observation of their endless banter, but something from the door keeps drawing my attention. A brief flickering of clothing, skin, somehow strangely out of place, an indecipherable discontinuity, suddenly gone again. I keep glancing back to the line of people still packed alongside the south wall, suspecting that I could be suffering flashbacks from the acid I’ve never taken. There it is again: there, a head between two patient chino wearing middle managers, just like she’s been there forever. Has she? Her large vacant eyes quickly scan the crowd. Her face is completely forgettable, her features perfectly passive: a mask of a thousand people I could pass by everyday. But there is something else. Something. Else.
What the hell? I’m reading something from her. This can only happen if I’m close enough to someone to smell them, feel the warmth of their flesh. Only then do I begin to pick anything up, and even then it’s only sometimes.
This girl radiates.
I feel it from here. This is not right. My body tries to panic in an instinctual reaction to another’s life invading my own, but there is nothing to panic about. There is nothing. No hints of life or love or pain or want.
The only thing I get from her is absence.
The only thing I get from her feels like she has no soul.
Then like a switch, gone, poof, like she was never there. Did I blink? The people she had just stood between seem unaffected. I think I can see glimpses of her as she slowly weaves through the crowd of waiting people, no one seems to notice her. Weird. There, another one. there are two of them. A little further back in line is a man, his face just as bland and forgettable, his presence exuding the same sense of emptiness. His clothes seem deliberately, conveniently neutral. He slips in front of a middle aged woman as she looks around the bar, he starts to scrutinize the patrons. Suddenly his face becomes animated. The difference is subtle, shocking. He looks over his shoulder at the woman just as she turns and sees him.
He smiles.
She smiles back, like he’s always been there in front of her, like they share the same befuddlement as to what the big fuss over this place is about.
She smiles just like he expected her to.
He turns his head again toward the crowd, the features of emotion bleeding from his face like they were a sudden and fleeting affliction. Large empty eyes methodically search the room. He is looking for something. They are looking for something. What could they possibly need to find in a bar stuffed full of drunk people trying to get laid?
…oh
They are looking for someone.
Legs propel me of their own volition up and into the crowd. I walk around a table just in time to see her stroll out of the line of waiting people, crossing the hallowed space that separates them from the teaming mass of bodies deemed worthy enough to actually consume alcohol here. Just as calm and cool as you please she slips into the crowd: the perfect party crasher. The bouncer didn’t see it, he was busy scrutinizing the buoyant and all but exposed breasts of a girl farther back in the line. Duck didn’t see it because he was actually making a drink for someone. No one waiting in line saw it, they were all somehow consumed with their various dramas. No one drinking noticed it, they were all busy…drinking. Nobody in the whole bar was paying attention to that small little section of floor at the exact moment she calmly walked over it and disappeared into the crowd. What are the chances? I think of statistics, probabilities. She did it in plain sight of everyone. What are the odds that she could pick the exact moment that 150 or so people were not looking and infiltrate a bar developing a vehement aversion to uninvited guests. Any one of the people here would turn her in without hesitation for so flagrantly violating the first rule of the bar. The odds are complex, too many variables, permutations. It couldn’t have been just luck. She somehow knew the exact moment. Nobody has paid her the slightest shred of attention except me and the man with vacant eyes still waiting in line. His face is empty and expressionless as he watches her progress through the crowd. What is he? Backup? What is she? What is she doing?
I’ve lost her.
I push through the crowd, using his placid gaze to roughly triangulate her position. I try to get in front of her, manage to come up a little short and off to the side. I watch her slipping through the crowd, her eyes locked on some guy at the end of the bar. She stops in mid stride, like a switch labeled ‘walk’ was suddenly thrown. She stands there, motionless. A man beside her puts his glass down on the table, turning back around to continue his seduction of an obvious transvestite. Without even looking she reaches her hand out, takes the drink,and starts to walk again, glass comfortably held in front of her. She doesn’t drink, but it does help her look like she belongs here. Did she know through some understanding of body language that the guy was going to set his drink down? She couldn’t have been watching him very closely, her eyes never strayed from the man at the end of the bar. Like her entrance into the bar, she just seemed to know what was going to happen and was there to take advantage. Goose bumps raise on my arms as I watch her walk. Her hips slant back and start to sway, her stride begins to undulate, becoming sensuous. Her face contorts slightly, softens, little by little, as she gets closer to her objective. Lips push out, become luscious, her eyes become slightly slanted and sultry. Before my eyes she is changing into somebody. I stumble around people, their curses, as I shadow her. Just as she reaches the man she has been walking towards there is an almost audible click, and sex pours out of her, hits me like the shockwave of an explosion. My cock becomes rock hard, my mouth waters, she touches his shoulder.
“Hey there stranger.” Her voice drawls with a slight southern accent.
He turns towards her, tries to conceal an immediate attraction. “…Hey there yourself.”
“I haven’t seen you in forever, how the hell you been?” her mannerisms are confident, confortable, alluring. She has his complete attention. In the space of 10 seconds he has become completely ensnared.
“I’ve been great, things at work are really picking up…How are you.” His face betrays slight confusion. He’s sure he knows her, but doesn’t quite remember how.
“Life is beautiful, And getting even better now that I’ve run into you again.” She bats her eyes slightly, grazes up against him, perfect fluid gestures.
“Yeah, definitely…I can’t believe it, but I seem to have forgotten your name.”
She punches him lightly on the arm, “Well don’t you know how to make a girl feel unwanted.”
“I’m sorry, if you tell me one more time I am certain that I won’t forget it again.”
“That’s all right Sugah, I’m bad with names too. I’m sure you can remember my name though, why don’t you try, don’t worry, I won’t get mad if you’re wrong.”
He furrows his brow, thinks. “…Sarah?”
she squeals with delight, sticks her tits into his chest, leans up on her tiptoes, kisses his nose.
“I knew you would remember me!” She sets her drink down, looks around. “Hey, do you like this bar?’
“Its fine I guess, why?”
“I know this other place right down the road, its more intimate, better for us to get reacquainted…” She lightly strokes his forearm.
“Well lets go!” he can’t hide his excitement: he’s so going to get laid. He slams his drink on the bar, turns around, offers her his arm.
“…Lets.” She wraps herself around his arm. It has taken her all but two minutes to pick this guy up. He’ll go wherever she wants, which is almost certainly the purpose of the exercise.
I’m standing in front of them, my eyes locked onto her, awash in the sex-vibe she emanates.
She looks at me.
An expression I can only interpret as shock passes over her face, temporarily loosening the mask she created for seduction. She quickly recomposes herself, walks up to me, ahead of the confused looking man. She comes right up in front of me. The lusty vibe flickering like she somehow can’t keep it up. She looks in my eyes, her own seen to contort, as if they are trying to take up a thousand shapes at once.
She stops. Right in front of me. I can smell her. She smells like rain.
“Leave Me Alone.” She growls, pushing me hard in the chest.
Her touch. Cavernous. For that brief moment she seemed to absorb every part of me. Every hint of feeling. Gone. Replaced. With nothing. But sex. Nothing else. No specifics that decode into a history, a life. Nothing but sheer animal lust. I stumble, fall back against a table, contorting in a sexual pain I never thought possible.
I feel her walk past me. I hear the man’s voice come from behind.
“Who the hell was that?”
“I don’t know, just some loser. He was bothering me earlier. No worries, Lets go, eh?”
I get up off the edge of the table, ignoring the looks from the patrons around me. Nothing exists except the want for sex. Primal. Every part of me. I watch her guide the man out the door. Her cohort exits the line and follows close behind. They are gone. The need remains, expands. I’m hyperventilating. This yearning, infecting me. Too potent, blind and violent instinct, It does not feel remotely human. It grows, needs, ripping everything it touches. Fear beyond that for which the name of fear is given. I know that I am losing myself. I walk slowly to the bar, sweat soaking through my shirt, my erection a bar of iron pushing against my jeans. I catch Duck’s eye, motion him over.
“Give me a drink.”

6. Comes the Dawn
Shock. The latticed haze of recollection congeals around her, quenches on the flavor of her emptiness. Every instance of question, every riddle of recent history, solved. My mind touches the pain of lust she left me with, recoils, urging my flesh to flee. My body does not remember how.
She was the impetus.
Dark eyes bore into me, without motion. Her smile is the flicking tongue of a reptile.
‘What do you want?’ words move my mouth without volition.
The smile fades. Replaced in increments with an analog of confusion. These four words confuse her.
“…I do not.” Her face vibrates, attempts some posture, fails. She looks away, breathes, returns her gaze to me. Eyes almost urgent, searching. Gone. A barest hint of feeling, diving under oceanic depths of nothingness. The smile remains, meaningful as the ripples left from the flicking of a tail-fin.
‘You do not… what?’
“want.”
What? Is she playing word games with me?
‘Why are you here?’
“Because you are here.” Her lips move just enough to form her speech, never disturbing the edges of her smile.
I see the counter-girl stand up with a gallon of milk, she look at my table, slants her head to the side, confused that a girl, a not unattractive girl, is sitting with me. Concentrate. This is potentially a bad situation.
‘How did you find me?’
“…You are here.” Again, the briefest confusion, like she doesn’t know what she is to say.
This is getting nowhere. Be specific. Ask a simple closed-ended question. My mouth opens, is overruled by the roaring of hot air forcing itself into milk and tea mix. A welcome pause. I compose my line of questioning.
My ears ring slightly in the aftermath of viscous drink preparation.
‘What is your name?’
“You call me Sarah.” Such odd phrasing. Like she doesn’t have a full grasp of the language, but I’ve heard her talk like a born-n-bread southern bell.
‘That is the name that guy you picked up last night called you.’
“Yes.”
‘Is that your real name?’
“It is the name you call me.”
Great.
‘Well ok then, Sarah…Are you here to pick me up like you did that guy last night?’
“No.”
‘Then you’re here just to have this little talk with me?’
“We are talking now.”
‘And what, exactly, are we talking about?’
“You ask questions, I answer them.”
I let out a frustrated sigh, rub my face with my hands. This is like pulling teeth. The counter-girl approaches with my chia, sets down the paper cup on the table. The woman sitting next to me animates, flips her hair to the side, grins, nods at the wall.
“I really like those paintings, where did you get them?”
“I painted them.”
“For real? Wow, you’re quite talented, they remind me of Dali’s earlier pieces.”
“Dali is my idol!” all pretense is gone from the counter-girl’s manor, “You know, all my paintings are for sale…”
The woman looks up at her, laughs “If I had a dime to my name, you’d have yourself a patron. But I do know someone who would definitely be interested in your work. Would you mind if I brought him by, take a look-see?”
“Oh hell no, that would be great! Hey, do you want anything to drink? It’s on the house.”
“That’s ok sweetie, I’ll just share with my friend here.”
The girl looks dubiously at me, shrugs, turns to leave, “Well just holler if you end up wanting anything.”
“Will do, thanks, and keep painting, you have a great future.”
“Yeah, definitely, art is my life.” She returns to the counter, humming underneath her breath, happier than I’ve ever seen her. I look back at Sarah, her face now emotionless as plastic.
‘Why did you talk to her like that?’
“It is what she wanted me to say.”
Simple as that.
“What do I want you to say.”
Her face seems to flutter, stops, flutters again. “…I do not know.”
‘Why am I different?’
“You are different.”
Jesus fucking Christ on a stick. I take the plastic cup off of my tea, more frustrated now than afraid. I take a sip. Heaven.
‘So, Sarah, you want a drink of my chia?’
“If it is offered I will drink.”
‘Sure, Sarah, have some.’ I push the cup towards her. Why the hell am I doing this?
‘You don’t have any cooties do you?’
“My body is free of communicable disease.” She takes the cup, cradling it in both hands, raises the edge to her lips, and takes the barest of sips. Her eyes close. She swirls the tea around her mouth, swallows.
“This is good.” Her eyes open. She pushes the cup back to me.
‘Have some more.’ I am fascinated that she can express an honest enjoyment.
“I know the flavor of it.”
…ok then.
‘Well…Sarah, it is obvious that you’ve come to this little café because I am here, correct?’
“Yes.”
‘So, your purpose for coming here involves me, correct?’
“Yes.”
‘Sarah, what, exactly is your purpose for being here?’
“I am to bring you with me.”
I let out a pent up sigh. There. Finally
‘Ok, where are you supposed to bring me?’
“To a man who wishes to speak with you.”
‘Why would I go with you?’
“Because that is what you do.”
‘What does this guy want to talk to me about.’
“That is not for me to know.”
‘Look, Sarah, cut the cryptic bullshit. I saw what you did last night. I saw how you corralled that guy and got him to leave with you. Now you’re here for me. Its beyond creepy. What happened to that guy, anyway?’
“That is not for me to tell you.”
‘Either you tell me exactly what happened to that dude, or you can count on me not going anywhere with you.’
“That is not for me to tell you.”
‘Did you take him off and kill him?’
“He lives.”
‘Are you holding him for ransom?’
“No,”
‘Then what, goddamn it, what did you do to him.’
“That is not “ ‘I know I know “That is not for me to tell you”. Honey, listen to me very carefully, there is no way in hell I am going anywhere with you.’
She smiles. Tentative. Almost childlike, bashfull. Not at all what I was expecting from her. She lays her palm face up on the table.
“Give me your hand.”
‘Oh fuck no.’
“Please, I will not hurt you.”
‘I still remember the last time you touched me. It fucked with my soul.’
“Your reaction was…unintended. This will be different. Please.” She nods to her hand.
Against all good judgment, against the voice screaming in my head to stop, I watch myself slowly reach my hand out and place it in hers.

Purity.

Gentle hints
of sex.

Like kitten paws playing with my fingertips.

Intricate, beautifully simple.

All I feel is want for her.

No panic, no pain, no reaction.
No torrent of her life forcing itself into mine.
Just simple, wonderful attraction.
‘What is this?’
Her other hand is on top of mine lightly stroking my skin. I almost lose myself in it, but not quite. She is emanating just the right amount, the perfect algorithm.
“I am to offer myself to you.”
What? I want to jerk my hand away, but can’t bring myself to break the contact.
‘You were told to do this?’
She lightly traces the veins on the back of my hand.
“I agreed to do this.”
Goosebumps travel in waves up my body.
‘What happens now?’
“You are to come with me.”
‘To the man who wants to talk with me?’
“Yes.”
‘And then?’
“Then we have the rest of tonight.”
She wraps her fingers into mine, stands up. I get up to follow her.
She reaches back to the table with her other hand, puts the plastic top back on the cup, picks it up, hands it to me.
“Don’t forget your tea.” She squeezes my hand reassuringly.
‘…Thanks.’
We walk out the door.

creatures unto the void
the dreams of a possible scenario.
regolyth
her myth carved on the ediface
before the fall
when my where-with-all faltered.
desperate pleas for rescue-
standard tactics draw the weakest to the frey
& take with languid aching gestures
their place upon the playing field.
ever was, i run from them
find my flavor, hone in
territories on a grid
separation by a drowning death
perhaps a game of go for whatevers left of him.
movements of the ocean
the undertow
i will not go
into a feast of friends that fed upon the end of me.
creatures of retrospect
the habitual definition of boundary
breath that still is sweet
perchance does anyone know where this leads?

bruised lips, wet with want
stick it in, steal my soul if you're so able
hindsight versus visions of perfection
countermeasures.
an old story, faded stone walls
i remember your name
and what to do when warm eyes turn ghastly

i would prefer vacuum,
confortable and empty
no seething, teeming, tumultous clusterfuck of flesh
that i have, at best, a tenuous control over.
i am completely ruled by limbic urges,

when i was 12 i was babtised in a rickety babtist church.
i found the white smock, the circumstancial ritual quite funny.
it was my turn to get in the pool, and i started to snicker
the preacher held my head under for way to long and i started thrashing about,
came out screaming
my mom says i called him a cock sucker
i've never been to church since.

things fit..
a clock spun & set in sync
before this floor had met my feet.
what impliment could claim such for affect?
i watch it tick...
in place
all nimble and quiet like

whispers in the corner
girls with hands over grins
i would sit & bask
knowing it was you
but would prefer to skirt your influence.
like a school of fish in open sea
i flee from thee
insane geezer freak.

push my buttons
set me aspin
cast me adrift
reel me back in.
elastic tension
test my tolerance.
as i am reconstructed
& everything
every breath, every instant
is a patient & persistant addiction.
sub me out, tie me up
tell me to clean your kitchen

peas in a pod
who's on camera now
show me your papers
the requisite structures
what are you doing to me?
a mad-cap game, & i'm not supposed to participate
take this ache from me
put it on your mantle
it would be best for all concerned to see
how easily i was lead astray
charge admittion,
half off of me
shorn and bared, a stone altar
my every possibility
spilled into your bruised and wanting lips.
watch me sputter and spin
realing with too much information

Prolog:
they come for us, too many little fingers.
So what happens next?
the quick among the memories of washing masses,
thrown into an inperceptable limbo, upturned, wrent,
the last relentant graps stop seeking edges-
those who can, flee.
neglected wares, recklessly abandoned,
sense of pursuit through deserted streets
where there is little left to do
afterthoughts, quickly coalesce, get out of hand.
Let’s please just pause for station identification...
efforts onto the void, the sounds of concussion,
monolyths, images of a possible scenario
A ragged breath for those who listen for it.
signs of wear, as prey falters and is overcome.


8.) statues of the dissidents.

the substance of this street-
ingrained infintesimal graffiti.
spun.
set in sync, just enough
to belay small hopes that things could simmer down.
a crowd once watched, aghast,
as someone was swept up in it,
turned suddenly hack-kneed and askew.
i watched him shudder, after;
his insides granted a strange visibility
the want to help set against the fear
of touching who did not quite seem to exist.

so, in effect, (to whit) my plan is for siesta.
a tranquil tavern scene- in walking distance, yes...
eastern cliches of interesting times,
does *anyone* know what that was?
& so it came to pass
that babbles became coffee-break banter.
case and point:
there, just now,
that fence that was just there, right there,
and now not.
apparently, they can do that,
a factory option for fence non-existence.
i catch myself in a 'come on, now!?' gesture.
...about a fence, that isn't there... great.
bit of a spectacle, hm?
moving on.
like a light switch, that.
most pretended to not notice.
an ever moving crowd sprinkled evenly
with the smirks of the thoroughly insane.
maybe it IS best just not to expect it,
evolve to an instinctual creature.
ever onward, all that,
a flyer, hung once however tenuously
from the fence in question,
flutters meaningfully in my path,
this is so a setup.
but who am i to disregard a fortuitus nudge,
stoop down, scoop up, tattered flyer in my hand
a slight strange warmth,
stuffed unceremoneously in jacket pocket.
a brisk turn at the corner.
is that, perchance, neon?

an instinctual gesture.
thoughts of what she wants of me,
define me,
watch it become mine.
I can’t help but be maliable sometimes.
But sell thy wares elsewhere, kitten.
As there is weathermen and aphids here.

(
5/3/2001

I hiked the mountain to the temple.
The sound of aphids,
hella loud among the ruined walls
And then not, like they were never there,
I stood on the outjut rock and lost my soul,
Came back singing some strange song.

(
she comes here washed in another life,
tactile and obvious.
It is to be a puzzle then?
i would be remiss not to bring issue with it,
picked up pencil
nicks a mark on Food Pavilion receipt.
)
)
11.) ever get the feeling you were being watched?

She caught me slipping,
came back in an ackward stumble,
the want to ask what I’ve missed,
her expectant look,
an inward chortle at my coming-to procedure,
should I tell her ‘I can build it?’
“What?”
‘..an antennae, THE antennae,
an antennae like none other’
I feel my persona slip into madcap scientist,
like prewarmed sheets in the thick of winter shit,
like i was built for it
“you can build: an antennae?”
a pause for a bit, let it sink in, yes.
‘that I can do, remarkably easy, actually, to build it’

I believe she’s seen someone she knows,
my arm is grabbed,
affectionate, insistent
& I am led to the back room.

idle hands gesture her punctuation
and her intended path to the perepherial people,
that swirl around us in our progress.
“I can’t believe you ate that sushi”
I admit it was a definite low point.
she leads me by a table of,.. people?
That don’t seem to exist,
They can’t possibly be just place filler.
A gentle tug at my elbow and I remember my place
I think I was galking.
“its best not to stare, you don’t know who lives there.”
empty eyes with an inside undefined,
who do you work for?
she stops and gives me 1000 watts of goose eye
"can i ask what your antennae does?"
I say the first thing that comes in my head.
‘you’re requesting classified information,
here are my demands,
buy me a drink, a tom Collins,
lets sit a bit, at a confortable table and have
episodes of witty banter,
pay my bar tab.
take me home,
bondage scenarios optional.
tea time as an interlude.
then in the tub, afterwards,
I’ll paint upon you an expert soap-sud mustache
and tell you what my antennae does.’
I remember much more about fair Rowan, now.
‘hey, there’s a friend of mine, lets go sit with her.’
I continue to find it interesting, how some among our
species continue to have good luck,

13.) A fortuitous string of concurrent events.

I guess if I happened to be in such a place
I wouldn’t question it ether.
‘this is acceptable, who am I meeting?”
“my friend, Yvonne, the one waving the glass around.”
(“Notice she doesn’t spill?”)
“The other folk- I could give you a good guess..,
But there exists two seats
and chances of a pleasant recline ,
would we not be remiss to pass up such a
fortuitous coincidence? Yvonne will like you ”
shes laying it on thick, a bit
‘you say that like she’s not supposed to.’

I gesture foreward
what does your friend do?’ “yvonne?”
‘yes, your friend Yvonne.’
Her friend’s nae is Yvonne.
“for what?” ‘..what?’
”what does my friend Yvonne do?” ‘exactly my question’.
“do for what?”
‘’for fun’
“she obsesses over icons in human culture."
‘then I will tell her of my shiny red button.’
“she’d like that.
what do you want to do?”
‘for what?’
“about your daydreams of antennaes?”
‘I want to push the button.’
our approach is over.
“Hey Yvonne, this guy just had some weird vision
about building an antennae..”

14.) the inevitable, served cold.

some time has passed

I know what she’s going to say next, unfortunate but true.
I count the instances in the pause before the inevitable.
i do this as fast as I can.
‘what if I told you I have heard that one before?’
I’ve heard her say this, (before,) .
other undisclosed spots, 3 times, I think of it, her saying this,
at just such a moment in conversation.
and now a part of me has all but the obvious answers,
hense this episode will, indeed, be a novelty,
“stop me oh oh oh stop me, stop me
if you think that you’ve heard this one before”
my morrisey is impeccable.
visions of strange elements, peripherial people, unknown & friendly,
some strange artiface that no one speaks of.

My hand extends like it wants to lay on a heathen,
A slight elvis wiggle.
( for some reason I hear the thumbing of a deck of cards.)
‘are you for real?’
these words, I’ve come up with,
I’ve way too much practice
for just this.
my methods, my means(?)
the cadence of my words might have one believing (, temporarily),
that I was wearing a coyboy hat?
A part of me aghast that I supped from the stutter
It seemed that I could pause forever, perusing options
as nothing else was happening.


9) see an enemy

a slathering ,
one must have advanced defenses to survive.
Lost in a tundra, a pause with no answer,
the urge from others to think of one,
But apparently its best to stretch this out as long as possible,
Pull up short just in time, buggs bunny manuvere,
Luckily, just then, this fence
just folded in on itself,
which caused a few among us to flip out, (just) a bit.
“did you just see that?” ‘shhhh’, shut the fuck up hand flutter gestures.
“no, really, that guy,” ”saw it to0.”
Its obvious he feels tactless and obvious,
standing amidst the flow of traffic,
and so will probablay have nothing much to say for the rest of the story.

10.) ‘mister, please stop talking, you sound pathetically insane’
she said this to him, and he is so trodden as to mime
some demeaning guffaw ritual, right then he just did that,
like watching someones gravestone.
Shut him the fuck up though.
the quick and the dead. I think, standard retreat tactics.
Images perk like praire dogs and scatter.
This lad spins like a dead stars, sucking intent away
from that which is necessary to not fuck me in the head. ,
a strange predicament that can’t end well, I think.
But curiosity gets the better(a tendency for this, I’m noticing),
I admit being compelled to follow,
Lets watch this strange episode unfold.
Social camoflage, in approximate earshot.
She’s hot, actually, all stacked up upon herself,
Like multiple versions of this all end with her exactly here.
Follow boy with tag-along action. She’s herding him.
Subtle gestures, bene-geserite tricks. Pulled off to the instant
of when appropriate. A part of me wonders what time clock she’s on.
She looks back at me, knows I’m watching, doesn’t care.
She’s caught up in the inevitable. They’ve arrived at a backroom table.

18.)curiosity and kittens
“well look here, I haven’t seen you in a while”
I have but to utter 2 more sentences,
I pick a name from a hat,
‘rowan, long time, please sit’
two chairs have been, as per expectation,
fortuitously cleared. One down
“can my friend join?”
‘absolutely’ pattern completed, signing off
apparently my permission for this lad to sit
is crucial, I said my lines with authority.
now sit back and watch the show.


EPILOG:
THE INSIDES OF OLD MACHINES, THE FEAR OF THEM
MONKEY-URGE TO PRAY TO UNKNOWN GODS,
TO KEEP THEM FUNCTIONING.
JUST ANOTHER BREATH.
METROPOLICE,
BELLOWS THAT NEED CONSTANT CARE.
& WE’RE HELD OVER FOR AN INFINITE ENGAGEMENT.
THEY MEANT TO MAKE A COG OF ME.
ESCAPE HATCH, JUST ENOUGH ON MY BACK
TO FLAIL INTO THE VOID, AND LAND, SOMEWHERE.
VISIONS OF TREE FROGS, SUCKERS EXTENDED.

I’VE ONLY JUST ACLIMATED,
I FEEL THEM COME FOR ME AGAIN,
A TASTY MORSEL THEY JUST CAN’T LET SLIP PAST
I GUESS.
EMERGENCY PROCEDURES, I’M GOOD AT THIS NOW.
EVERYTHING INTO A SNICKER-SNAK BAG STRAPPED MY BACK
NO CLINKS NO CLANKS, STREAMLINED AND INNOCUOUS.
TANKER BOOTS WITH THE HEELS CUT OFF SO I DON’T THUD.
ALL CLOTHES IN SHADES OF GREY.
THE REQUISITE FLOPPY HAT.
SHE DOESN’T WAKE UP.
THAT’S HOW I KNOW:
THERE ARE NO BEAUTIFUL AND ACKWARD BUMBLINGS,
JUST EFFICIENCY, IT NEEDS TO HAPPEN.
THE UNDENIALABLE KNOWLEDGE THAT SOMETHING IS TO BE SETTLED.
DOWN THE STAIRS, 2 AT A TIME, SLIGHT CROUCH, NO NOISE
STRAFING PATTERN. I’M USED TO BEING HUNTED.
ALL POSSIBLE EXITS BECOME BEACONS, AND THE SCENARIOS
BEGIN TO STACK, A KITTEN PAW DANCE OF WHAT ABOUT TO HAPPEN.

I COULD JUST BE TRIPPING, WAKING UP TO
A HECTIC EXIT PROCEDURE AT FOUR IN THE MORNING.
BUT I WAS TOO FAR IN TO IT BY THE TIME THAT I AWOKE,
TO NOT HELP BUT CONTINUE.

EXIT 1 ACUIRED, AND I’M A NOW GIRL,
ALIVE ONTO CITY STREETS,
EVERYTHING BLISSFULLY ABANDONED
AND EVERYONES IN PLAY.
MY CADENCE KEEPS THE STREET LIGHT POSTS
AND OTHER URBAN FLAK
BETWEEN ME AND THE INEVITABLE PASSER-BY.
AND WHEN ALL IS QUIET, AND THERES NO ONE AROUND, I RUN.
LIGHT STACATO STEPS ON THE BALLS OF MY FEETS.
MY TORSO BARELY BOUNCES.
I HEAR THE SHOE SCUFFS OF SOMEONE AROUND THE BUILDING CORNER
LUMBERING, NON THREAT,
A QUICK LOPING ARC IN THE MIDDLE OF THE INTERSECTION,
AND SPRINT, AS MY FEET HIT THE SIDEWALK ON THE OTHER SIDE.
2 BLOCKS DOWN, I BEGIN TO RELAX.
I DON’T KNOW WHERE I AM,
VAGUE IMAGES OF A CONFORTABLE TAXI RIDE,
DID I NOT ONCE LOOK OUT THE WINDOW?
TRAFFIC HAS PICKED UP. I SLOW, FIGHT MY LUNGS NEED FOR AIR,
AND FEEL MY SKIN BEGIN TO COOL.
(‘NEVER LET THEM SEE THAT YOU’VE BEEN RUNNING!’)
dukes all night café, teamsters huddled in booths, eggs and coffee.
Mmm coffee. A random human sampling, a payphone, and a sense of location.
I sit, recline, caffeine laden with cream and sugar, and wait for sunrise.

‘

she told me that the sunset of a summer sky
looks like what i can sometimes try
to paint when all good boys should be in bed
(can you blame me for not sleeping yet?)

the patio section seems best to psychoanalyse our differences
& come to terms with what besets
these most strange of circumstance
notice the switch?
toes upon the parapet
a glance into the periphry
what made you assume that i could use a sampling of thee?
there comes a time when all assigned roles
become trite, contrived, and trivial
and i bring back into my sense of solace
your charicatures of me
something to remember you by,
yet still i must refuse the rank of battery.
the last trick still has not been noticed yet

...& i was just about to ask her to prove it...
¶
so we were set to be broken by a jealous playwright...
but to attempt to change the essence,
the alloted sceen re-written
with in-jokes and allusions to the start of it.
after all, every possibility exists
[but (happens) only] once.
(is that) deja-vu
or an astute director
convinced memory is better
but something MUST go here.
& if it IS (a)live
to decide not to like thy alloted lines-
one might never work again.
but public access IS free. (as of yet unconfirmed)
come and get me then, & prove you're worth the trouble
i'll put my cock on the table, knife in hand
and dare you to say it
disscount me again, please
just to see what it might do to me.

¶
my 2nd grade teacher used to smack my hand
(with a ruler even)
every time i crossed a capital "J"
even then i knew it was kinky
was i the 1st?
to make her wet when i stood by my original assertions
i would appologise, but i'm pretty sure she was allready used to the harness

¶
so what she broke me?
at the time she satisfied me amazon ideal
& our son is beautiful

¶
anothers come to take your place allready.
convince me of my fealty
i would demand it,
but fear you find me not worth the effort
you will never read this, after all.
you, who know my inclination better than most
yet still impose a past incarnation,
did it get under your skin a bit.
need to get yer jabs in?
such would have broken me (a little) before (mmmm)
do you have a bridle?
can you see me now?


¶
i barely feel her alight the bed this time
& i remember it again, the precorticle future-type vision:
mayan monolyths, the precipice.
sea-shells, god-rays, caustics that leave markings in my favorite forgotten script. stuttersteps that half take my attentions, the math of it swirls around itself, conductive circles, nautilus incriments, set aspin, gyroscopic, hit with a capacitance, resonant...
coordinated universal time? wtf?
will she give me the attention i require?
an afternoons bussfair to some decrepid dive?
all my problems will be fixed (eventually) dearest of the beautiful...
i'm broken but for none has shown me what to do with this
the bios-chip asthetic.
i close my eyes and taste strawberries.

¶
i would say good-bye, but you refuse to let me go,
non serviam, *shrug*

eyes open, cavernous ceiling, stone, almost to forever. i've been poisoned: nerve ending feedback in my fingertips, a convincing argument to lament my mortal inefficiency.
shut up. suck it up. establish the fundiments. who am i? where are my clothes? the first question-rhetoric, as such thoughts lend themselves to a peaceful, loping existence, i remain content to lay here, let things come of their own accord, no need to vault for cover, all is well. (i am awake, aparently...i wasn't before)
clothes..hm- requires effort, a search strategy, (toes nestled in blanket, apparently shrugged; ceiling-fan-goosebump-shivers) as i muse the implications of such, the ominous architectures of my awakening gratefully fade to white faux-stucko americana: standard apartmental ceiling, safe, sane, expected. (soft sheets, floral scents, estrocentric art below my field of view, this is a girls place). wait, hold on to it, just another moment (mmmmmm. awash in vapor trials of estrogen). but such was never meant to endure beyond the fleeting. (i don't remember falling asleep.) the peculiarities of my situation begin to bear some semblance of order (shit) just as the door used to separate this room as functional living component opens. (shit.) no use feigning sleep, i wouldn't be here if she was stupid. (bed bounces with her weight, a definitive gesture, intended to jostle, shit) all signs decree this experiment is ending, badly.
'you were talking some kinda myan gibberish in your sleep.' almost monotone: her affect of dissinterest.
"did you record it?" (the ceiling fan has become, suddenly, hypnotic)
'no means'
the smell of the organic strawberries from the fridge, no doubt tastefully arrayed on expensive glass dinnerware.
(*whoop* *whoop* *whoop*, like a puppy)
i'm supposed to look at her now, in time to watch the glans-shaped fruit pass wet (oh so slightly bruised) lips, the cringe at the ensuing emasculating snip from a perfect insisor. dangerous iconography that, perhaps the clothes dilema merits further research.
(*whoop* *whoop* i can almost see the individual blades)
best to see where things stand, her shifting weight decrees that things need to get rolling, let the healing begin!
..."i sense some...unresolution."
clang of glass plate on dresser, she pads to the window, free from my personal bubble: apparently this was not the thing to say.
'you...hmgph...' (quick gestures decree a nicotene addiction)'...you.....' (shes been thinking about this) '...a Carrot'
(...)
"i made absolutely certain the business end was smooth" (d'oh,... play it off, this could work)
she turns to look at her bed, my shameful nakedness, the eight inch (approximate) carrot infused puddle slowly affixing the flannel undersheet to the matress.
'you...fucked me... with... a carrot'
the blinds come up reveiling grey urbania




d'oh, computer time almost up... save and exit

¶
a summer sky is but a picture here. an artifact to torment the little bit still left susseptible to rememberances of eden. an attempt to temper against a twinge that if preventable just might misspell the end of it.

i watched the repetative cast assunder
a second guess
a stutter step
and the rest are left with thy rememberance
when at last allowed to catch ones breath
i'll carve an icon in thy vasage
the quick and the dead
don't walk in the jungle with blood on thy hands and expect not to amass attention.

¶
your attentions have mass
if you surpass me send postcards of the golden streets
perhaps to meet in a flagstaff dive circa 1923.
chance occurance notwithstanding, but whose to see what circumstantial evidence might bring to me when electricity ceases to pass & one might drown in their own accruance, the affluence of inefficiency.
down to the gutter with thee, lick my feet and beg to be sullied.
i'll bath thee in rosewater
then you'll post up on street corner-
bring sugar to daddy. sweety.

¶
perhaps you would the smell of another upon me-
to prove that i've been wanted
repeatedly
i thought the gesture was beautiful, to relent to none but you.
i could taunt you from affar, but such would smack of effort,
unrequited.
so, ya done with me now, exit visas ensue, and such?
just be blunt, please
i like it rough
convince me there is nothing left
then i might be finally rid of it.

¶
dream of cyclones that give thee attention
the intent
to go with it
seems ominous, doesn't it
but what else is left?
was that a disscount in thy utterance
when i smell that you remember
every bit of it?
(was that a trick?)
aquiesse, relent
remember me where you and i alone exist
dream of me as perfect
is that to much to ask?
or is that why you cannot bear my countenance?

¶
23. separation by a drowning death, do you remember it yet? thats why the sense of loss was so imbittered. but admit to me our recursion and i'll leave thee to thy own device. i obsessed a bit, i thought of it as compliment, yet the best inticements turns awry if there exists too much history in absense. *shrug* i am still, after all, human

12:31, waiting 4 my bus 2 hit
instinctual recursion (& a sense of math)
respite from the methyl-ethyl haze
of this epochs inneficiency
(& the sun is unrelenting)
a tree adorns the outscirts of a re-education center,
muted yellow busstop marker
assurances all is right with the world
check for the absense of ants, good.
yes, i judge thee squatable.
a smoke-pause amidst the wreckage of the jungle floor
shade tree
the road screams
in a register nevar meant 4 vocal cords
& just 4 a moment
no cars pass
and all is quiet.

you're h(a)unched, side of my barstool, too old for any's good,
i smell of you.

water takes its pennance from even the newest beachfront abode.
awash
an infintessimal waft of decay
rafters rot away, invariably
("just look at the windows!")

but this, awake
(you always make me sleep, human and contented)
fingers rake the banister
this early morning pj mug of tea thing
its makes the artiface
the whole kaboodle
of such starcrossed architectural ideals
worth it.
every bit of wasted mortar
that sloughs oh so gently to the sur
just for this
a background set for my idolotry
predawn jitters, the taste of rain,
eden and a carrot stick.
will 1 not go just because its been done?
... a lot is underfoot (afterall...)
hip slant, legs perched, just so
the possibility of rythm
a sublingual attentivness triger
that benegeserite schtick
does this just happen
for thee to be arranged just so?
iconographic glory
& cultivated estrogen
static cling, kitten paws
permeant
the breakfast nook overlooking the veranda
and the encroaching dawn.
is it a role bequeathed by some astute director
or just the remanants of you seething behind a mortal shell?

& i know you wait for dawn
and I'm as quiet as possible
winding down helix stairs
rickety from shifts in se(n)timent
but all cracks, creaks and pops therin
have, in these last few days, been so accounted
and my descent is as silent as allowed.
i know you appreciate the effort
and the time lent by an extended entry
to prepare for another in your periphry.
i think thats why you lay it down on me
a smack-down slatherering that can but be remembered when recovering from stuper.
just to get a moments peace
i told you i didn't sleep
and you seem to prove me wrong repeatedly.
but i readily admit to selfishness
a lack-a-daze
i watch you wait for dawn to break
when you'll cup the mug
absorbing warmth through chalice spread fingers
and alight, no sound or wasted effort,
pad to the window and absord a moment's solace.
(i know you best here, an icon left to ache you're absense)
it doesn't even phaze you i find the ritual fascinating,
it lends you power, solidity.

these chance meetings
random hints as precursors
where do you come from-
some girl-fuzz nebula constructed to facilitate this ache?
and as my bare feet touch bottom i know why captains of industry are such s&m freaks,

territories of the breath
convince me there is something left
at best
to quench the rest of this.
propriety
a sense of bliss
as this world is fluttering
unrelenting
so
achingly
slow
and i'm left to cower in the corner
the taste of you still on my lips
and the transgressions that mar the edifice
are but cute and mortal.
cover my eyes and tempt me
whisper what i don't expect.
for i know this incarnation is old
and has been done before
you don't even know
that you asked me please
still wrecks me
and the rest of it
is irrelevent.

did you think me unfair?
apt but to leave thee sullied?
perchance i beared the affectation of ease
-pj drawstrings tied in slipknots, and what-not...
know then the trappings of bondage
you might've seen strewn casually about
were used only when aquantances turn amorous,
and i could never bring myself to dissapoint,
but (alas) the abuses that this mortal flesh has accrued make all save extended acts of taunting seem apocriphal
in truth you are the only who could seduce me.
and let me shirk my pretense-oath of sanitariness
i admit to that pretense on our first re=introduction
i was curious, actually, if the possibility still existed,
that another could make me feel this
lip-bite wanting.
and even the aftermath,
as the part of me that has encoded you recoils from your absense
even that was not so bad
i've had enough practice to claim that.(a dissasterous claim)
so if you are questioning as to my intent, guess.
convince me you're still interested
or did i not live up to an iconographic memory.

much too real, that
when finally i can walk again among of my kind without the gut-wrench of their unresolution,
left to cower in corners with a convincing self-dialog for sociopathy,
-but knowing still such judgements stand,
that i cannot help them,
should i be tossed along the undercurrents of decline...
you are hinted at,
(inevitable, that)
subtle reminders, and i must know of your travels
finally(?) i can sense (your/a) freedom (was it mine?)
past so long when i knew there was nothing i could say
a bloodlines fate amidst mortal gestures.
thats too real for TV
& i had to be sure,
so what if i made you an icon for tribal purity?
and of mortal chance, well... we all roll dice, respectivly
condolances to those who can't take the prescribed dosage?
revel in what wraps one who could in protection?
that voo-doo dark of pre-meditation...
among the mass' you might be one of few i couldn't read,
and it proves to me some indeed are human, and not just plackards for an agent's whim.
and i do so tire of the game...
who dares to presuppose,
to take all of me (*rat pack '50's svelt pose, ensues*)
condense it down...
to get my number,
i can feel it, them, trying to get a handle, the pidgeonhole to place me in.
a fond derision,
but i know the darwin-laws of butterflies
and lifes unrequited apathy.
an such invitations for tete-a-tete, when the outcome is only as obvious as ones taunting allows.
well could you blame me for my youthful arrogance?
know then, it should by all accounts have been beaten from me
i chose to keep it, like a scar on my skull to prove i cannot be killed so easily.
i am thankful for existance, still
a humble benefactor who wants but to exit on better terms.
to build, again
from scratch, again
and convince myself to be worth the effort.
an (inenviable) cycle of suffering
(aint there a religion based on such...)
and not for want of company, these throngs beat upon my door...
to take from me what they themselves won't recognise as nourishing their cooincidence.
but those who yearn for me want but the flesh or the mysteries of a complex mind
and a soul remains unriquited, unperused,
should it even matter, that i am not given the choice of simple mammal-enamourment?
to opt for prudishnish, to deny the taste of it, or consignment as a social vamp, perchance a hat-trick? ancient taoist translations, energyflows, etc? hmmm, not the expected, and THATS the point of it.
exept by you, from you, what is this, why does just your memory crawl inside the parts i don't want open
it makes me feel pathetic.
can you believe that?
maybe its even true,
and maybe a byproduct of gestures that you impart to all
and i am a relegant (no, that one ain't in the dictionary)
an example of one who can't let go,
(is that the definition of fixation, or nymphomania?)
[ARE WE STILL ALIVE?]
but what is it now, 10 years?
shouldn't the 7 year itch apply?
to know such pangs, or even its hint, (w/c/sh)ould break me.
a smell that was/is home, engrained in limbic memories
a long slow ache, life embodied as yearning
a specific frequency of heat
past the bonds of ocytocin,
pheremone whispered remanants of solace
so much i have to compose myself (no, really, part of me does)
and smile at you, convey my sense of confortability, lifes humble graces, yadda ya
allow myself the pleasure of bumbling around, to forget my station and just live.
in truth it is ok
human issues are fun and innocent
and their ease a gift of cognisense (sp, {on purrpose}).
the newness of the indecision, at least, has been absolved.
the maintaince of tribal confort,
while another part,
-the part that gives me validity
decrypts the transmition,
http://www.mum.edu/m_effect/
the maharishi effect...
-the math of beauty
and all the tribal drama
-the ikk that this flesh is heir to
is periphreal
there is ( i find [the {make-believe}] dream of) a place that is truly silent
-except for the intent of a few who (truly) deserve it.
an homage to an ideal
the fact is i remember childhood in your company.
not the instance, but the sense, the easy attentive whisps of interaction i tend to mimic when things are going right.,
to make believe i'm human, even to believe...
could i descolate that visage?
(honestly?... easily, i'm a slut, and i'd leave thee sullied...)
sorry to put you on a pedistal, is that selfish, or are you confortable there?
and no, this is not a grand design to get in your pj's
know me then, as truthful (or relativly so), just a boy with a plan
as for the past, our interaction was my ties to honesty, rehab therapy, even, and what i used as a subtle undercurrent (one of many, just so you know i ain't fixated with altars to you stashed in the cubby hole of my attic where i crawl up and sing to myself) to teach myself the human gesture.
but the possiblility of your full attention, umm sorry, but don't think i can hack it, secretly i want to, but...
i've tried before and flipped (straight the fuck) out, too much for a mortal lad (i guess),
so what if i have made you an icon of something pure?
its unobtrusive, save supptle hints,
that are but given as assurance you are loved and will be while i have the faculty.

but the mission is a viscoius viscous taskmasking baitch
stilletos grind in ribs if unattended,
a fickle and wanton flow, unrelenting
it must be known, absolved, given form,
and all else is secondary

so forgive me if i might socio-program the situation a bit
just enough to remove the want.
as mortal bonds collapse on whim
and my scars have not been so quick to heal

you seemed encumbered at times by past perception
what could i say to such but that i have known my permutions
used that,litmus style, as a base from which to judge this flow,
this linearly constrained recursive innuendo,
*insert nickel-word reality-defining thingee here*
, for asthetics. and serindipitous aspects thereof.
and (at long last {drumroll please}),i deem this incarnation as free from blatant architype (blatant euphamism),
the epic sceeneries, done and chronicled
the boundaries have been accounted for.
this is a place-filler world i guess
a random st(r)ain, could be best spent tending bar...
and yet, to place oneself amist the flow
a rampant fickle, untented thing
twitterpating through intent,
reminiscent of smoke-whisps in a still room, still it flutters...
it seems my empathy was bruised beyond my tollerance, (...again [geesh])
by others who only really loved my ideaology.
what am i to do with this?
that i could, by association, taint a still fragile form.
brief instances,
a perfect trap?
one who knows me
as sociopath?
...that'll keep ya in check.
but thats not me, at least i don't think so

never-the-less
i remain contented to know you exist
and are (somewhere) happy
my first and only non-commital act of love
save the requisites of lineage.
as most monkees look for mirrors, and if one is forced to play that game,
i'll admit to an advanced tactic core,
the canine-lick recognition of a dominance ploy
but the parleyance of the game
is still a mimick of true tact and grace
and smacks of surruptition, an unspoken want.
and such could be the best
if one wished to have a lot cast with the rest of such suit,
and absolve a tender subject as an option.
did i really disscount myself like this
or does it excuse a judgement of unfittedness
an easy hack, supposedly, and seemed natural at the time.
i guess the questioning should be reveled in, as it implies my youth.
but, on my word, t'was the only act of dishonesty

"It seems, as one becomes older,
That the past has another pattern,
    and ceases to be a mere sequence....

I sometimes wonder if that is
    what Krishna meant—
Among other things—or one way
    of putting the same thing:
That the future is a faded song,
    a Royal Rose or a lavender spray
Of wistful regret for those who are
    not yet here to regret,
Pressed between yellow leaves
    of a book that has never been opened.
And the way up is the way down,
    the way forward is the way back."

T. S. Eliot, "Four Quartets"

inanimant
i can't seem to sleep
my mind wont relinquish:
the part of me
-that breathes in this chill and knows its apathy
weeps for my kind.
watch me react

time goes by.
(tick tick, tick tock)

with a steady grin

even off-the-handles been done.
this permutation but takes up space
a slot-filler
until its (finally) all been done.
the epoch's been accounted for.

repeat for me
the things that make you sad and human
do you blame anyone for a bored and fickle tendency?
for wanting to be bound
trussed up by you
bacause i have this, at least, to feel
and that is more than some.
most get so jaded, so quick,
waiting for the thread to fritter
and a good excuse to cease struggling.
little's left of innocence
a mouth, a need
an earth that bites thee by assocaition.
at least fires of decline
are by default devine

down stream, so long, past memories of stars
the most tempered of the strain look back
-the last thats left
to pan the camera for a dying god.
maybe spend the last of it
to edit what was left for us.
and make the background serindipitous.
whatever might garner their attention.
-fickle.
cares what for feedback, lessons in vapor?
it gives solace to know the end (?)
that there are eyes to see
it turn a final cold?
a thin soup, dispersed and slow
i might not go into such a feast of frenzied remanants
when theres nothing of the body left
and addicts live vicariously
through me
reduse, reuse,
frittered to an art crowd unamused by gestures that postpone the ebb.
a pointy-toed shoe conspiracy
news @ 11.
take whats left of me
by minutia
so slow you might not think i'd notice
but ultimatly i know your nature
you are but bound to me, my flesh, that i control
(i do)
watch through me that which is denied by thy very substrate.
what do i care
i'd live in a glass house.

take from me
things left out
for easy access
invariably theirs, i guess.
& all they must do is but appeal to me as human...
then commence the surruptitions-
little tricks
to take my sh*t
to beat from me
the propensity
for prolonging the inevitable
so my ka is taken
that I'VE accrued,
for MY mission
its piddled away
on good highs
and smooth-flow pick-up lines
and it is expected of me to endure
as though the trappings of my station.?

i hope those squares went down smooth, bra.
i could speak of straw and camels
but will, this once, dedicate myself to blatency:

do not f*ck with one who knows the favor of the void
steal my cigarrettes & remember me
at the first wheezing coughs of later years
the random chance,
the unknown trigger
that could have but saved thee the trouble
gone
as of this morning
just a warning
i'd stop smoking.

i will build a monument
of trash
so high
it will piss god off
and i'll spit in her eye
for getting this version
slightly less right
than the last few