Boobs II

We have stopped somewhere in the dessert that with or without greenery remains the American desert, in Oregon, in southern California, in Mississippi, it doesn’t matter.  We have made a curb our coffee shop, Zeus, the other gods, all look on, Kay drinks something other than coffee refusing me that need to find my reflection in others that thing that lets me not hate them, she does this intentionally, but I am strong, I can look past it for now.

I have been saying ‘boss’ like as in boss Tanaka.  “boss” it sounds almost like bus, there is accent, I am hunting the nuance, calling it out of the world of my own mind, summoning it up like we have been for all the worlds laughter.

“I mean this could be anywhere” she says.  I nod.  I grab her shoulder and say Boss like a question like I am urging my boss to consider something, imploringly, Boss.  She always knows this is a single player game and this is also a request for her to sit down and watch without comment, observe the greater thing my gut says is dissolving into a recognizable artifact of my journey.

“boss”

It’s the boss without a question mark.  The word, his title, is the question, it’s not like, boss let’s kill them, it’s more like, Boss are you sure?

“it rules out your wanting them to be part of you in a biological way, it rules out you wanting tits like you may want better eye sight or to break three hundred on bench.” She says, sipping the not-coffee.  “but you think you should be able to buy them, to own them, not to eat but to have on a shelf to use like paper towels or coffee, it’s a consumable, you see it that way, that’s why you get five, unlike a car say where you might sell your car to get a different one but you will only have one, the car is transportation, 5 means they get used up”

I think about what she tells me.  My mouth mimes Boss over and over.  No one has the balls to park in the spot where we are sitting, someone may someday.

“you didn’t buy women” she says.

“I love tits” I tell my sister.  “I love them so much”

She smiles.  Sometimes she is gentle. This is one of those times.  One of the times when my sister does not call me to the bonfire with chains, accusing my darkness, shackling the beast, the destroyer of worlds that lives in me though, with any breath I might kill everything not dead already.  This must be the difference between good and evil, it has to be, otherwise what is the point. 

Talk to me about evolution after a road trip, after the dynamic of ownership behavior is cooly settled into boss and not-boss. Even if they are your keys but you are not driving, tell me how much you feel in possesion of your vehicle when someone else is driving it, even if you are there in the passenger seat, your left hand 1' 9" from the ignition. tell me about truth and right and wrong and frienship and how no one will leave you and about agreements and trust and fear after, after, fuck, I forgot what I was trying to say. I stop moving my lips.

“not your boobs though sis, sorry but I have to draw the line somewhere” I say as we stand, she taking my lead.  I have the keys, it’s the only reason. 

She laughs, “thank god for that” she says. 

“boss, boss, boss, boss, boss” I shout, shaking with my fists, rigid and perpendicular in a cornholio’esq fashion, a TP for my bunghole jibe. 

In the jeep she asks where we are going.

Boobs I

We are driving again.  We are arguing about pronouns, if that’s even what they are called, and I am using it anecdotally to hate on Spanish, the idiocy of attributing gender to inanimate objects, she is holding this bully fight in her mind like a school teacher might a real brawl, without malice, detached from outcome at least as far as I am concerned, and I, the bully recognize none of it though I see it, am not cowed, will not comply, my own heart my god, my own anger is my intellect, I swerve.  Her hand goes up for a moment and she stiffens whether because of the swerve or anticipating disaster.  My arguments have deteriorated (over the last few years) into an amalgam of civility, a few articulate kill shot attempts with figurative lance and then more passive coexistence and a few long stares.  Who needs a good point anymore?

It’s Vegas for me.  I tell her I dream of a bed made of tits.  She smirks half loving the idea herself.  I tell her in my dream, though it was not a dream it was an idea.  I get angry before I start.  I stop talking about the idea.

“that’s fucking bullshit” I scream.  The car reacts more than she does.  "the whole world shits on things that are not dreams, if I was to tell you that I had a dream you would be all, oh...  well it’s not a fucking dream, it means more, well maybe not but it’s important too”

“whats your idea” Kay asks me.

“My idea is that I am at a grocery store in the donut section and I am buying these big, soft, perfect tits…  I fill my fucking bag… (I look at her) its an odd number, its five…” we drive for a while.

She thinks about what I am saying or looks like it. 

“I wish I could read your mind and judge you for it” I say.  She spits laughter and then we are both laughing, I am laughing, banging my fist on the steering wheel to break it.

BFOW excerpt; At Jenny's you get drunk...

 ...but you get drunk with her not me.  I have been reformed into that prick of a lover we both need me to be.  I am the one.  The two of you are quiet in the kitchen.  I shout that I am not doing a threesome and both of you laugh.  There is shit on TV.  Jenny is dating this guy she keeps calling Hugh with emphasis and now Anne is doing it and I am pretty sure it is because they both think the guy looks like Hugh Jackman.  Really she is hard on the ears and I am pretty sure she is struggling to get this guy to keep fucking her.  She is just so high pitched and monotone and loud.  I stopped thinking of her as an ass after about five minutes.  We were at some fucking coffee place and she worked there and Anne would go there to say hi not get coffee and that is like another thing wrong and different about men and women.  She was outside smoking with her and I swear the guy/kid she was working with must have been real stupid because he thought she would fuck him if he let her do whatever she wanted and like, as if she wouldn’t have done whatever she wanted if he was a dick.  Anyway we are out side and I am fake nice cause I haven’t met her before and I see her and I am looking at how well her ass comes together and then they come out side and I smile and all that shit and I swear it was like the acid just kicked in cause there was this nagging, this unreachable, directly unnoticeable concern and then whoosh there it was like “Hey!  You are so fucking loud you crazy Bitch!” only it comes out “What the fuck is wrong with your voice?” and Anne hits me cause she knows but stupid Jenny doesn’t know or care and smiles and says what? then goes back to talking and I am like “Wholly fucking shit are you for real?” and she wants to know what I am talking about and I get up and then run and just to be a fucker I put my hands over my ears and yell “Fucking please god, please fucking kill her!” and I run for a block and I can’t hear her and then I walk and there is a 711 and I hate this fucking one and nothing is ever new here and you can’t get anything but the same old shit and I am taking about 17th st. now not just 711 and so I get Anne parliaments and they don’t carry mine cause I am too fucking cool for all of this bullshit and Anne doesn’t come by and I mark it as a sign our relationship has advanced to some new autonomous level.  I walk home but not like a hustle which is what I want so I don’t and she pulls over some twenty minutes later and I get in and she doesn’t say anything and I am trying to use psychic abilities to detect tension and shit and then she says Jenny thinks I am cute and there is a party or something and I imagine breaking bottle over her head, Jenny’s, like full fucking bottles and I am satisfied with the heavy crash and crunching of glass and beer, bloody in that overly oxygenated head blood way and hair all creatively wet and matty like there is egg in it but it is blood and her confusion and my zealous, violent damage.  “Fuck yeah.”  I say and now I am moving on to magnums and then punch bowels and throwing her rag doll like through glass fucking tables and thunderous smashing and crashing and shit and glass fucking swimming pools now fly through some breathable deep space where both she and they collide head first and “Fucking rad babe.  Party!”  I scream and she goes shut up you dork and I lean way out the window and scream party! like I am fucking toga party villain and she is pulling on me to get back into the car and people look and I look at them like I have never looked at any body before and I command them to fucking party like I have a gun in my hand and it is party or a bullet from my gun and they have run out of second chances.  Jesus Christ she is saying and I come back in and I am laughing and she asks me what’s wrong and if I am crying and I say Ill make her cry and she says shut up and asks me what’s wrong and I say I just want to fucking party mom and she hits me and were near home and I turn off and she turns off and when we are out of the car I slap her ass and then I am there again in that fucking living room and I check my face to see if I am bleeding and I get up and go into the kitchen and she says babe and reaches out and grabs my belt and pulls me over and I say watch the cock and she growls in the way only drunk girls growl and Jenny is placid like a fucking cow and I ask Anne if there is blood coming out of my ears and she says no like I am a baby and it is not right to get horny when I hear that but I do and I want to sit on her lap but Anne is not a big girl and I kneel in front of her and say Babe, my ears, check’em.  And she does and finds unreal shit and I pull away and she asks what happened and I don’t tell her that I just realized Jenny’s voice doesn’t bug me anymore.

A kind of love

if when hours decline I lend

to some other import of my need,

beg white mercies from on high to bring

thoughts of thee and to my fate ill go

with one wish as this to thee

then walk without wisdom worlds below.

were I tuttored not by this dark hand

though hand the same as I if self owned were

beg the unlit reaches understand

knowing any entry enters thus

as offered omens own no trust

to be as sweet and carefull as I were.

great emnity may own at least as I

find no greater than this doubt secured

a proffered warmth where fire once was with words

though nothing moved but my dead heart and eye

to see no right in leaving this strange place

where beauty mires and worn dark wears a face

but knowing is no truth, fragile I must

uncouple from the course of this dark life

to live and own no lust, but this of her

where ever empty moving wishes were

extend the wound no shadow fills

and mark the pages in her sight

as feathers lifted in a softer light.

come to me for what I can’t pretend

illucidates a kind of trust

I will light a well within my hand

narrowed now in this not distant light

where wings will stay beating in the end.

The Nosegay

IV

The Nosegay

……………………………………………………………………..

“orichalk”

“piss on your orichalk, we paid merrin to be first”

“you haven’t paid me” I look to kay but all I get is a shrug.

“am i first”

“first for what”

I mumble fuck under my breath knowing as I say it how stupid I must be.  I tell Kay to give him an orichalk and it arcs a shiny path to his hand.

“each”

Unbelievable.  “you’ll be next up there if you keep stealing like this”

“i keep stealing like this, i may someday steal for the Autarch, who’s dross is the treasure of his servants.”

“who’s shit is the life’s blood of his people” I say.

I nod for Kay to give him another Orichalk.

*

The river stinks of the shit of all Saltus though we are the only ones who can smell it and that too will be gone in another week.  Morwenna would look sloppy under her rags to anyone but me.  Kay smiles under perfect clothes.  There is no privacy.

There is no calming her, she knows why we came.  Kay sits and has found things already to mutilate and toss like small ships into that thing they call Gyoll; plants and trash mostly, both gown up from the earth.  It’s all about that witch, it’s all she says, Useebia this and Useebia that, she knows exactly why she’s dying.  Kay would love her I think, be an angel pure, incumbent, attracted to that same thing in Morwenna that I have unlaced my fly for.  I used to want to sow light.  I loved Kay more when there was that thing in me that once we both had.  I rest my head on Morwenna’s bony shoulder and cry.  “play with me, make this not so evil” I whisper.  We both spit, she a good person for seeing my simulacra of that thing in her.  There is still a smell in her hair, of small flowers or herself.  “we leave soon, you do not have to be seven pages in a book”

“where” but she has stopped asking questions.  A good woman explains.  This time she will not have to.  Kay has told me that I cannot steal time, that the things I have taken for myself, for the two of us, that I never took them, that they were like water held in a fist and all this, the ship, our skin suits, a pylon of the Autarch’s war chest, it’s just wet hands.  Holding Morwenna's hand on me and moving it, I cum in my own then stand and walk, carrying it to the rivers deep edge, a father now, a destroyer of worlds as these seeds swim out into their own clear skies for our differences, for my deference to what they may become.

She speaks to Kay, her face looks into mine as I walk that length back up towards them both. She is worried of a greater evil in me, come now fed to feed again in the way all women fear but it remains untold in me and yet, for her truth, no less alive.

“he spoke my whole name for all of the life I knew him” Kay listens and is nodding.  It is such a thing, such a thing to see, how Morwenna, even on the eve of her death and borne under what grief I cannot imagine, never having had a lover and a child poisoned by my accuser, carries not the depth of soul that I see in the adroit eyes of my sister, her sharpened, pure, receptive spirit, listening better than anyone may have ever, hearing her life, and maybe she is right for I would take the woman, over my shoulder, thinking I had all of her.

I turn and walk to where Eusebia has been spitting and drop her with a fist to her stomach. There is now a line of four men, fatter than I, clear small eyes. They have not paid.  

Kay looks at me.  I will not reconcile what that thing is that is someone else’s life, it is someone else’s.  I do not own my own.  Where are my words for the things we want.

*

 
I am tired and my arm is now cut bad enough that I am more interested in the wound than even her life and I pull Kay away.  We leave our food for Morwenna to hide for herself though she will not eat. We are pushed again and this time we go.  To keep fighting back will bring consequences to us. I carry Kay back to the Inn and we sit at the table we had brought with us. I will not sew my cut nor tolerate anyone else to while I am conscious.  The words between to two of us are our own words though you may have spoken them in the quiet places of your own heart and in the deep homes of your own vaporous faith.  You have never lost their savor though those, their own bones that once knocked softly inside your pot are gone.  Though we did not want to we drank.  We have learned not to eat nor drink anything that is not very hot.  Jonas “the liar” as I have called him twice to his satisfaction tells the murderer everything he knows, the books tapestry, the greatness of that thing, it has come from him, that murderer never did any of it.  I spit up beer at least once per otrovez for the shit that torturer has stolen though to hear it be told you would say those things were given.  
“it’s not plagiarism, it’s not even being changed” Kay complains to me.

“that’s what the sycophant said to the author” I say.  Kay looks at me.  "you can't do that.  you don't even know what that means" then adds that it does not make sense, that I souldn't try to just say things, to try to fit things in, that I steal the truth from those moments when they come, from the other ones too, that were good always.  I tell here I will steal that but what I want to steal, to write is the expressions of her face.  There are not worlds enough nor time, and I would not spend it if there were.  Either way we are drunk and reckless and invisible to them. 

“you should have called it, shit some guy told me, hey” I have been pulled back before I could kick the murderers chair again.  The Caloyer runs the place and makes us go to our room.  “what happened to the hospitality industry” I shout again but even Kay is ignoring me now.

It’s my idea to sell that fucker out to Vodalus.  Everything is so obvious.  It costs me a fist full of aes on a swarm of urchins to get the ten Chrisos from those idiots that serve as his servants.  I tell them a story before I tell them where he is staying.  I tell them about the cat and the rolly polly, how the cat loved it, how fucking much he loved that fucking bug.  I ask them if they knew how they met.  He says, In the fucking garden.  I say, The fuck they did, I shout it.  He catches his beer before it falls.  Then how did they meet Optimate, he says.  I stop cursing and say, I had to shove that fucking bug in his face for a god’s damn watch.  You know what the fucking cat says when he finally sees the fucking rolly polly, do you?  They are all just shaking their heads no.  The whole inn is listening, waiting for me to get my own head struck from my own mother fucking body.  I say, He says, holy shit, I stand up to emphasize it, Holy shit I say he says, Look what I found!  Everyone but those idiots laugh.  Now, I say to the big coffin hunters all quiet like and leaning in, Now, for another five Chrisos to make it a lucky and an even ten, you can be the one who finds that rolly polly, dig it?

*

I have been sucking up to Hethor.   What a fucking joke.  I make the banjo sound with my mouth repeating it like saying dung, I go, Dung dung dung dung dung dung dung, dung dung dung dung dung dung.  He loves it, of course he does, reminds him of home.  Kay has brought out a thing we brought with us.  We put it in our drinks.  The murderer keeps out of the bar the last few days but the tin man is always there.  We four see, abroad in this third world, our world, lost to the savages who are and always will be ourselves.  like americans in Tai Pai, how do we hide?

We have been drugged now for two days when that blood orange, that 10 watt energy saver of a fucking excuse for a green planet sun rises like a soul never will from this dead and if not dead then dying world.  In the yard our rage and our numbness has given us the place in the crowd where we will feel the warm blood of wasted beauty.  That is the spot for us and we thank god for dying.  I have been working that hillbilly into a frenzy.  The murderers leap is impressive, even for a young man.  I point Hethor at him like a water cannon.  He is screaming I love you!  I scream at the top of my lungs, Bring out Barabas!  Bring out Barabas!

Kay has managed a new smile in our rage, in this resignation I have not been able to tear our lives from though we jump stars and our own fate like shady fern hidden deeps between massive fallen old growth logs from our youth. 

“your fucking inn is a piece of shit” I yell down the Caloyer.  Kay chimes in “i wan’t my two aes back” and the crowd laughs.  I love her and can’t save her and would take something.  I would save Morwenna like a stolen child, stolen wife, stolen mother.  Our faces are streaked with tears, I feel my own mix with beer and spit in my beard, and I hurt as much to see my sweet, my beautiful K’s pain, and no, nothing is ever quick enough Kay, nothing.  I watch him strike off not the head of a home-wrecker but the offered hand of our own god in every smile in every single love wherever directed and as it clops incredulously, unfairly, disastrously onto the raised wood floor, the crowd erupts and I shout “goooooooal”.  Hethor is leaping and screaming.  Kay is standing and air-firing t-squared arms like underslung shotguns con sound effects, Boosh, Boosh, Boosh!  I have not let go of Hethor once and reach around in front of him with my balled fist and sack him.  He crumbles still shouting and his voice cracks saying, I fucking love you, and but for the fact he is now parallel to the ground and underfoot of the mob, nothing has changed in his world.  The murderer is air fucking Morwennas pale and beautiful head, moving the mouth open and closed with his finger, the head losing blood like a gardening ladel, his hips swirling, unh, unh, unh, no longer god, no longer a mother, no longer mistress, no longer friend, no longer.  

*

Ater too long a time lost in the undulating mob, I almost knock over Kay who has that witch in a headlock and has bloodied and scratched the wet white flesh of her eyes and the moist pink inside her nose from the stabbing of that fucking bouquet that we alone poisoned.  Dropping the witch that in dying has somehow become an opposite, Kay looks at me.  I can remember nothing.  I tell more lies than any fool should and yet, I will never love more nor could ever forget K’s face at that moment.  I think to her, I know, everything is wrong, and it always will be, and that will never make it right.

That night while downstairs the tin man and the murderer feed each other those secrets that they can, I watch Dorcas through the cloth drape that separates our rooms wash her armpits, bare chest and crotch using a basin and the cloth of her own shirt.  I see why he would kill for her and its not her beauty though what she has is like it.   

It’s Kay’s idea to find the child.  I say it here only because it is the last thing we do.  I have renamed our flyer the Mylar Flyer, I paint the words on in red every now and again but paint doesn’t stick to it.  Kay has put the 10 chrisos in one of those foldy old man coin pouches we brought with us.  I tell them to give it to him like a bribe to not be one of them.  Kay adds that he must know in advance, that he must know when he gets hair on his balls, that it should be a temptation.  we see the kid in the back of the crowd behind that goofy fucking door.  He was shit for descriptions you know.  I wonder on our flight back how many cold hands have shoved up from the warming earth at his passing, left in the debris of a new world as much their grave as the brown heath and loam they wore before his feet fell too close above them.  I look into that little fuckers eyes who's dad was slain by a jealous hateful clinging disaterouse woman, and whose mother was killed by his savior.  I think that there can be no meaning in giving him as a temptation the gold we sold his mothers killer for and yet its truth tries to erase some fine no matter how I try with my mind not to let it.  The Old guy repeats his question more clearly. 

"and what if the young man says no"
"well if he says no then who fucking cares"