I feel powerful, like I could take down a giant. There is no alone or together, no part of and no groups, there is just me, and the world of humans is a blurry blood fest carnage of green; teeth eating the money, eating the trees and plants and rocks and things. I don’t intermingle with that blurry green gelatinous muck. I am free.
I feel weak and vulnerable. I go far enough uptown until I spy one of them, one of those unhappy married men who take me into the alley, and in one fluid motion it seems, I am suddenly on my knees, back of my head banging against the building in rhythm with his thrusts. There I go, stumbling a bit at first, feeling nauseous and dizzy, I’m finding my way to a dark place that serves, to feel my next bit of warmth.
I don’t like frills. I don’t even like how complicated our bodies are. Shouldn’t they be made of simpler parts, like tinker toys that can be substituted and replaced, mixing colors and genders and races until you get the desired combination. I feel like feather boas and earrings and such are fine, but I don’t like too much decorative frosting on the cake. I want to see the outline of her nipples through the diaphanous teal satin that snuggles against her as she stands there asking, “One more, Hun?” I like greetings and salutations like that, “Hun” or “Darling”, terms of endearment from strangers. It makes me feel like I’m family.
I was never really married, unless you want to count a short-lived shotgun type, without a father even present from either side. The clerk at the City Hall in Bendheath, Maryland helped me tie a Windsor knot – and my ‘best man’, a biker dude my sister showed up with, offered me the keys to his car and said, “Go now, it’s your last chance.” I never knew how serious he was, and I never took the keys. He joined my sister in holy fuckedupness, and a few weeks later, he beat the shit out of her because she tried to leave him. We all left Bendheath in a white knuckle panic the next morning – three of us – me, my new wife and my sister. Records, stereo, clothes: the few things crammed in my Mustang besides three frantic, paranoid white girls. Off we went, taking our honeymoon on the road. I drove the wrong way for 3 hours before noticing, and we all just laughed and I turned around, going back through that same free space we were just in – it felt just as good blowing across my face the second time.
I left my lazy boy recliner in my living room, money still owing on it, pure naugehide from some plastic cow’s ass somewhere. When I think of it now, sitting here in this bar, I have a flash of Steve Tyler pumping through my six by nines, and that purple swollen face of my sister, Missy Creamcheese in the back. She looked like a boxer after a hard days work.
O amor em paz.
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