altar
ego
Paint
splatters of ivy crawlen, from inside the whites of eyes a steady sweat breaks
rhythm, counting...counting...a fax machine screams, a traffic light clicks
one for time and the speed of light undressed me today, i didn't understand
then but now...yes, i remember.
The clothes in the window look ok to me, but really it's the mannequins which
draw me by my gut-threads, perfect breasts, nipples working overtime, gorgeous
in those fabrics, seafoam and russet, wheaten ivory...a cool gust slaps my naughty
ass, i should have stayed home today. But what has strung me into these marionette
steps if not the faces, the creased hands cigarette fingers and invisible voices,
the stones pressed into squares of cement pressed into streets of miles of cities
of a planet i intend to fuck very respectfully with good quality lube and a
loud left hand. Reluctant to be accountable for today, i lumber on in circles,
ride an endless groove with no answers but the music...the music, can always
go back there never left there but i'm so far away sometimes.
Walking three blocks, four, now five and i just now realized i've had my eyes
closed humming a distant vacuum cleaner parody of some guru's bedtime story.
Awakened now to a city of alarm clocks, two drunken slobs call to me in false
worship...i toss a stemless purple flower into a cascade of compassion to land
willfully in the hand of my eager sycophant who leaps to his feet and hobbles
behind me, "how about a hug, honey, c'mon!" "no, i'm sorry, i love you unconditionally
but i'm not a complete idiot. The last thing i want right now is to feel your
pickled and sunken battleship knocking against my thigh--take the flower and
plunge your lost vein of creativity deep into its throat, liberate me from the
seed of your desire...there is a beautiful mannequin across the street if you
need a place to pray."
i have just escaped from a box of insecurities, let loose into a calcutta-style
mob of worshippers and i don't even know if my costume still fits me for i have
become bloated with dogma and tireless acts of martyrdom. Something is breaking
open somewhere not too far away, egglike but thunderblind, a vine snakes forth
nubile and shiny of amphibious origin to shadow a withered and brown rendition
of the same. Let the drunks love who i was, so that my friends may love who
i will become.