"There are rules, man, there are fucking rules. And rule first and mother fore-fucking-most is this, and listen! You DO. Not HIT. On the bartender."
Sage advice, Mike, but fuck you. There are a hundred bars in this little redneck town, and every single one had Bud on the tap and Harleys on the pavement. There are rules, and there are regulations. They're written into the nicks in the countertops and into twisting barland stories. Mike saw himself a prophet, but tonight I wasn't worshipping.
There was a crazy quality about her. I know, calling someone crazy isn't ideal courtship strategy, but listen. Most people never dare to really see the world. Something in her smile and in the wrinkle of her nose could smell what's out there, and yet she smiles. She smiles at things that makes me drink. If that isn't special, what kind of crazy is?
Mike doesn't get it. "She's another blonde. Another inked-up mystery behind the counter. You want to give her something special? Tip two bucks a shot, and shut your fucking mouth. Magic!"
Fuck you, Mike, as if I'm not aware. There's a glass screen in this life, between the people living in a moment and the people selling it. You'll always be "that wacky/bitchy/quiet customer" to them, a character on the show they just have to watch. At least it pays, or else we might forget there's people under there at all. I wanted to be a man, and not a creeper, not a customer. Mike's gospels rang inside my ears like laughing high school hordes. They had me dead to rights, and I just wasn't being cool.
"Listen, man. I get it. I really, really get it. You think that seeing something means something. It doesn't. Nothing real ever happens within 50 feet of Jager. Trust me!" I wanted oh so much to disagree, but that Mike, he had me dead to rights.
And then she smiled at me. I swallowed half a sea of water and a wicked, sharp little chunk of ice. She laughed, and I smiled like a shameful boy might smile. She asked me if I wanted another, and I took it. I wanted more, had so many words to say. I washed them down, and that was that. She was in another customer sitcom show, and I was drunk and inarticulate.
Mike saw himself a prophet. A wiser man would listen sooner. Mike would never be more than he was, but at least he knew how to keep his dreams inside the spirits.
I never said a word. I tipped two bucks and shut my fucking mouth. The feeling passed, and Mike proved right again. The rules, they had me, dead and true.
The rules, they had me written.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Galatea
(Free-writing experiment to work through some random thoughts.)
My hands were wet and black and busy. They were certain, while my mind was loose and shaking in its shell.
The chassis frame was simple, smooth, and elegant. I’d chosen every dent and every scratch – each piece came with a history, a story, or a song behind it. I could have taken something fresh and new, but I wanted texture and meaning. I wanted perfection from age, like wine or history. Some things take a trip or two to settle in, and a good frame is no different. I knew it wouldn’t buckle. I knew it wouldn’t break. I knew that it could bend. All in all, that was the easiest work and I set to it with distant eyes.
What was I doing? Why? What did I hope to make, and what was I making it for? Was this perverted or was it passion? Was it both or neither, or something in between? The frame was soft and hard in places, reacting to my fingers by twisted nerve and old reflex. I could feel it, cold and firm, much firmer than it would be once I’d breathed the life inside it. What life could I breathe inside it? What was I doing? And why?
Next came the more delicate components. Lengths and ribbons of fleshy tube, all lubricated and carefully set into a bed in the belly of the frame. I built connections and made a pathway, a conduit for what was yet to come. My hands were certain, but I was not. This was delicate, but unimaginative. The interior was the same, all but the flaws, and here I had no time for flaws. The only stories here were climaxes and epilogues, and I had no mind for those. To know the destination, I’d need to know where I was headed with the work. The answer still eluded me.
I was holding the pumping piston as the juice slid between my fingers, and it struck me. I wanted this for me, for no one else. This creation was something my hands were aching for, taking heed from something deeper than my mind. I’d chosen carefully from memory and dream - each component, each fluid, each whisper and murmur and spark followed some half-remembered, half-imagined ideal. I was making something that my heart desired, and holding that heart, I placed a wet and gentle kiss upon it. The thrum of resonance was immediate – it would know desire as I knew it, in its fingers, in its frame. The mind would be the last to know.
The human work required a special touch that way.
The needle and thread were smoothly sewn, but the face was the slowest work of all. My mind had joined me, and it whispered aloud through my lips. It gave me answers, gave me guidance. I bore the muse internal, and before my eyes, a skull gave way like marble before the chisel, my scalpel in the sculptor’s trance. She looked at me, unblinking, as I set pale green jewels into their places. I let her watch as I set the height of her cheeks, the sharpness of her jaw. I slid a skin over her, working the living clay with a delicate cruelty – I left nothing out of place. Each blemish was intention, each error cut and smoothed away. I folded her lids over at the last, once I was sure those eyes looked on me with approval. Eyes should be closed for the first kiss, after all.
I breathed in my hopes and wonder, and I breathed out my doubts, my fears, and my weakness. I took a dozen flushing breaths, taking in all of the ambitions I could hope to share and letting out the stains of hard experience. She was a gentle work, and I would keep her clean. I was sure. I was certain. I was ready. I pressed my lips to hers and I exhaled, and with a gasp, she took in all that I could hope to give her.
I felt a flutter and her eyelids slowly rose. New fingers tensed and grasped my face, too hard, too clumsy. There was a moan, a scream, a moan again, and then she softened against me, she stilled. She looked at me. And with a cracking voice, she spoke. “Your hands are wet…master.”
I smiled. “Clean them, please. And thank you.” And with gentle lips and tongue, she set to work. She stained and smudged her cheeks and chin, but it was perfect. She was perfect. She was mine.
My hands were wet and black and busy. They were certain, while my mind was loose and shaking in its shell.
The chassis frame was simple, smooth, and elegant. I’d chosen every dent and every scratch – each piece came with a history, a story, or a song behind it. I could have taken something fresh and new, but I wanted texture and meaning. I wanted perfection from age, like wine or history. Some things take a trip or two to settle in, and a good frame is no different. I knew it wouldn’t buckle. I knew it wouldn’t break. I knew that it could bend. All in all, that was the easiest work and I set to it with distant eyes.
What was I doing? Why? What did I hope to make, and what was I making it for? Was this perverted or was it passion? Was it both or neither, or something in between? The frame was soft and hard in places, reacting to my fingers by twisted nerve and old reflex. I could feel it, cold and firm, much firmer than it would be once I’d breathed the life inside it. What life could I breathe inside it? What was I doing? And why?
Next came the more delicate components. Lengths and ribbons of fleshy tube, all lubricated and carefully set into a bed in the belly of the frame. I built connections and made a pathway, a conduit for what was yet to come. My hands were certain, but I was not. This was delicate, but unimaginative. The interior was the same, all but the flaws, and here I had no time for flaws. The only stories here were climaxes and epilogues, and I had no mind for those. To know the destination, I’d need to know where I was headed with the work. The answer still eluded me.
I was holding the pumping piston as the juice slid between my fingers, and it struck me. I wanted this for me, for no one else. This creation was something my hands were aching for, taking heed from something deeper than my mind. I’d chosen carefully from memory and dream - each component, each fluid, each whisper and murmur and spark followed some half-remembered, half-imagined ideal. I was making something that my heart desired, and holding that heart, I placed a wet and gentle kiss upon it. The thrum of resonance was immediate – it would know desire as I knew it, in its fingers, in its frame. The mind would be the last to know.
The human work required a special touch that way.
The needle and thread were smoothly sewn, but the face was the slowest work of all. My mind had joined me, and it whispered aloud through my lips. It gave me answers, gave me guidance. I bore the muse internal, and before my eyes, a skull gave way like marble before the chisel, my scalpel in the sculptor’s trance. She looked at me, unblinking, as I set pale green jewels into their places. I let her watch as I set the height of her cheeks, the sharpness of her jaw. I slid a skin over her, working the living clay with a delicate cruelty – I left nothing out of place. Each blemish was intention, each error cut and smoothed away. I folded her lids over at the last, once I was sure those eyes looked on me with approval. Eyes should be closed for the first kiss, after all.
I breathed in my hopes and wonder, and I breathed out my doubts, my fears, and my weakness. I took a dozen flushing breaths, taking in all of the ambitions I could hope to share and letting out the stains of hard experience. She was a gentle work, and I would keep her clean. I was sure. I was certain. I was ready. I pressed my lips to hers and I exhaled, and with a gasp, she took in all that I could hope to give her.
I felt a flutter and her eyelids slowly rose. New fingers tensed and grasped my face, too hard, too clumsy. There was a moan, a scream, a moan again, and then she softened against me, she stilled. She looked at me. And with a cracking voice, she spoke. “Your hands are wet…master.”
I smiled. “Clean them, please. And thank you.” And with gentle lips and tongue, she set to work. She stained and smudged her cheeks and chin, but it was perfect. She was perfect. She was mine.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Sway
She moves, and the world has to twist in her wake.
Maybe if you saw her, that would a little more sense. Me, I'm a seasoned veteran of shaking hips, but even I took notice when she hit the doors and shattered that glass like a rush of butterflies. She was disruptive, destructive, and pure. She left the place the way she found it, but it was never quite the same. She broke the world for second impressions, because she'd moved on since then. Understand? If you're lucky, you will.
She's got a class of character that swallows people whole. She's as violent as the sea and as calm as the beach in the sunlight. She burns you in the right ways, and the time is never quite enough. Her eyes are fierce and tidal - when she's high on you, you cannot breathe. When she ebbs, you dry and thirst. Get what I'm saying? If God or the devil's willing, you might.
She never stays. No, she never, ever stays. The way she moves, it isn't written into her choreography. She knows how to touch, how to kiss, how to sink in deep but she couldn't dream to linger. I've seen a lot of girls come and go, but going is her nature, as certain as the sunrise. The view of her leaving is just as intoxicating toxic as the sight of her coming. It'll kill a man. It'll make a girl a heartbroken woman. But it's all part of the promise in her stride. You feel me? If the angels are watching, you won't.
I hope you think I'm full of shit. Some moments ruin a man for feeling. It's better to believe in the good old stories than to chase them. You get what I'm saying? If you do, I know your eyes and I share your battle scars.
When she moves, the world twists in her wake. That's me, twisted. All in all, I can't complain. What good would it do, when nature has its way in the end?
Maybe if you saw her, that would a little more sense. Me, I'm a seasoned veteran of shaking hips, but even I took notice when she hit the doors and shattered that glass like a rush of butterflies. She was disruptive, destructive, and pure. She left the place the way she found it, but it was never quite the same. She broke the world for second impressions, because she'd moved on since then. Understand? If you're lucky, you will.
She's got a class of character that swallows people whole. She's as violent as the sea and as calm as the beach in the sunlight. She burns you in the right ways, and the time is never quite enough. Her eyes are fierce and tidal - when she's high on you, you cannot breathe. When she ebbs, you dry and thirst. Get what I'm saying? If God or the devil's willing, you might.
She never stays. No, she never, ever stays. The way she moves, it isn't written into her choreography. She knows how to touch, how to kiss, how to sink in deep but she couldn't dream to linger. I've seen a lot of girls come and go, but going is her nature, as certain as the sunrise. The view of her leaving is just as intoxicating toxic as the sight of her coming. It'll kill a man. It'll make a girl a heartbroken woman. But it's all part of the promise in her stride. You feel me? If the angels are watching, you won't.
I hope you think I'm full of shit. Some moments ruin a man for feeling. It's better to believe in the good old stories than to chase them. You get what I'm saying? If you do, I know your eyes and I share your battle scars.
When she moves, the world twists in her wake. That's me, twisted. All in all, I can't complain. What good would it do, when nature has its way in the end?
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