emma b. says

Friday, April 20, 2007

running up that hill

or maybe just walking briskly. It's middling late or early on Friday night, you can take your pick, but you can't quite escape the perfect bluing that is curling in tendrils about your cheek, and the sliver moon hanging on the edge of the night sky, the cloudless night sky, where the rain was supposed to fall.

I hit the floor of the restaurant three times tonight, that's a record unto myself, I blame my shoes and the pine floor, I have hardly even broke tipsy no thanks to the twinks who thought we were lipstick dykes and plied up with drinks as they left their food untouched. What a world, it's been weeks and days since a straight man cast his gaze in my direction, at least while I was paying attention, but the gays just think everyone else is gay and that is alright if you have enough meth to last through the weekend. They were sweet enough and maybe I am not being fair, they were young and Bladerunner was playing above the bar and they disparaged the unparalleled Rutger Hauer for being tubby - P and I just shook our heads and tried to school the highboys.

Things change and what you shared with a generation as a seminal aesthetic just gets lost in the cultural drone... drones and on and on.

My right hip balked on the walk home, just like the rest of me was skittering on the four winds herking and thrusting through the trees, I have gone to pieces with the elements and ps I love you. My hair and my right eye have gone hurtling through the horizons, east, towards the rising sun, a blaze in my right gaze and the tarnished gold in my hair aflame at dawn. I'll be your harridan, oh yes I will.

To the west let my bones go a'knockin, they'll go west young man, oh yes they will, until the depths of the seas are exhausted, west and wet with every coral fingered, musseled delight, west with fingers articulating without joints, without smiles and without anything, just a fabulous calcium deposit jitterbugging through the depths of the sea with no purpose, accumulating wreaths of brightly jeweled necrotic creatures with bulging glittery eyes, unknowing of the glories of the marin sun.

C'mon then, Posiedon, lets get good and drunk then, I'll procure the retsina if you've got the rangy satyrs, we'll go up to the roof top and peer gimlet eyed at the stars, your skin is dry. The satyrs make things awfully goaty, but it's all good, I am only drinking - I mean I am only dreaming anyway, and besides, the best and most magical stars only ever fall when I am craning in the other direction.

C'mon then all you wary little gods, here I stand on the corner of Haight and Ashbury on this middling Friday evening with my fist thrust well into your vortex... Bring me out, bring me out covered in inter-galactic slime, I'll take anything but these indifferent winds I am sick of headaches and lassitude.

To the North then goes intellect and reason, to the white plains of nevermore and alwayswill, to the far shores of sagacity and the bloody corpses of baby seals.

To the South goes the heart, deep, deep south, the beautiful, brutal, unreasoning south, the heart only feasts on strange fruit and you can castigate and condemn for that, but the heart has no head and cares not. Be mindful that the most horrific acts of brutality are measured by the heart's selflessness. The heart doesn't arbitrate, the heart only ever is.

As for the rest of me that is not assaulting the elements with her fist up the vortex, well the rest of me is tired, craves a dreamless sleep and a good man, I think I'll get the good winey dreams of evermore and possibility -- as to the man, well, to the sweet girl tangled up in twin comforters, I say keep dreaming, maybe someday he'll be there as fleeting as starlight, maybe he already was, and that will have to suffice. The universe, I have said it before, is a fickle bitch, she prefers her soup salty with a dash of maudlin damn her, damn her all to her gloried blue diamond bright hell, damn her for not crushing that fleeting, fledgling, wriggling worm of hope. I damn her with my empty bed and all the gorgeous music that never was and never shall be. In the mean time, the car idles and bucks in it's spot next to the video store, fret not, we'll go soon.



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