I'm supposed to be moving day-to-day command center operations from the head to the heart, or so sayeth 2017. Never been much good with plumbing the murky depths of Feelings and Emotions. Too many bends in the pipe. Reckon emotivity is good for something, but what an awful sticky thing. Way easier to let that comfortably numbing hum thrum away in the pit of the belly and the back of the brain. The old ticker has enough to do than to be bothered by keeping time with the syncopated rhythms of the song of songs.
Darla embraces trash but she cannot accept dirt. She says what she says with stickers but fuck all if she's got a word for what she's feeling. Always, always she's checking those little green boxes. Grow, she's told by the quivering silvery stars, but do nothing as love dies. A stellar prognostication! So she does what she does just to see fifty (which is something you might want to figure out how to do.) But oh how Darla keeps her reality in check with pith and micro love poems that she silk screens on 14" x 14" squares of muslin and sells down at the bazaar for (unframed) $12.95.
I am all purple lightning and pink balloons. You are a deep blue arrow that's found its mark between my ribs.
I am a piece of shit. You are gold. I hope we can bring light into each other's world.
I am less restless when I'm near you.
We don't need to speak. I feel complete when you walk into the room.
I give you my heart and all the space you want.
Don't let anyone change you.
Darla will give you what you need (whether you know it or not) and something to look at while you're busy doing something else.
You have no discernible shape. You are all pulsating gray matter and no body. I want to give you form. I want to give you a frame from which to hang your sentiment and shame. You rise and roll right up over me. No string, no tail. Nothing to grab onto at all. My hand passes through you when I try to hold on. You are The Astounding Stratus Boy. Super, you are. I can see straight on to the neverlasting.
No fairytale, this. Just fast friends, a gruesome end, and a few fond words shared at the wake. But I pretend, just to mess with make-believe, that love is a redemptive endeavor and not at all about insecurity / jealousy / obsession / regret:
The two of you sip limoncello on Capri. I wait for you to come up for air, to remember why you guys chose this island from all the other (much better hidden) hideouts in your price range. It is because those soulful birds sunbathing on the rocks are exactly your cup of poison. Have another round on me.
I wait for your postcard.
And like o.k.: There's this particular writer whose work I've read and enjoyed and whom I find interesting and irritating all in one big, messy mouthful of come-one-come-all (talkin' bout chyoo JD). Yeah so, brutha man goes on about fat folks in his stories and he himself is pretty thin (cute, though - I'm shallow, ok?) Curious bit that I don't quite get unless the writer's a reformed fatty. And if so ??? Ah, the tricky ickiness of body politics (which needs its own moment of contemplation ... like how I've been body-shamed, but yeah I digress.) Anyway, dude also has a fondness for riffin' on why Asian girls go with white guys. But..but..but ... JD's partner is hapa haole. Just like me! So does he believe deep down she should be living with a Chinese man or, at the very least, a half-breed like herself? What is that all about? Does JD worship or despise or just plain could not give two fucks about his lover's DNA that is white-white-whitey-white? Why not go Big, Black & Beautiful, bruh?
Simply put, we like what we like. No tryin' to deny it. Humans, each and every one of us. Being human is a tough gig to pull off no matter the narrative one espouses from atop the mountain.
Well, as I do, here I go to face the day and try to relate to Every Body best I can 'cause we are all dodging one shit storm or another. Ain't it all supposed to be about love? Tolerance, too? Minding one's own bloody business when it comes to affairs of the heart and parts farther south? Fear of a halfie planet, indeed! Bring it. Here's hoping you stay open-minded today, peoples. Best of luck to ya!
Here, give me your hand. The one that's still got all its fingers.
rifles through milk crate-places object in man's unmangled hand-man looks at it-brow wrinkles-recognition eventually switches the lamp on behind his eyes
It's a clover.
For luck, I say. By the way...how's that book of yours coming along?
Workin' on it, the man replies as he walks off, head bent while he examines the small, smooth, green glass - tchotchke - paperweight suitable for a lone sticky note.
A Saint Paddy's Sham. Rock On! [unspoken bit hovers above in a billowy pink thought bubble]
Yeah, yeah. Right. I watch his body retreat, rise, and float all cumulus like toward the next vendor's stall.
NOT EVERY INTERACTION RESULTS IN A SALE BUT THIS ONE LOOKS LIKE HE MIGHT COME BACK
*add up in the end
I'm sad that I'm not sad that you went out in the rushes and you never came back. Poor trade-off is what it is - no guarantee the demon'll flee after your fiery stage left exit. Who did you save? And is your good name any less difficult to pronounce now they've brought the curtain down?
Checking ... *
OK, my sacrificial buddy. Your legacy's buried among the roots and rot of the neighbor's persimmon tree.
* Let's hope the voices were recorded.