Jagged spasms and spikes of energy. A needle through the back of a butterfly/beetle. Who are these people? I don't know them. They seem to know how to speak. They seem to move about alright, their limbs orienting them successfully in space. I like to observe them. I enjoy being their voyeur. The assigned part I was born to play. The outlines of their bodies, the clothes they've chosen to wear, each individual one so . . . distinct. Idiosyncratic. Singular. Whole. Other. The masks they put on reflexively. The masks they see as mine. I watch them going up and down the street, wandering about in stores. I imagine things about them. How I long sometimes to touch like them. to touch them.
Saw my brother last night. At the abandoned house out on Geiger Road. He said he couldn't help it, the pressure in his
head was just . . . too . . . much.
My feet are lying flat on the floor. Long, wiggling flappers. The carpet is green. The carpet is coarse. I feel like crying. Images are so sweet. I feel like dying.
It's like everything goes round and round. It's like you can feel the world spinning, the sky lurching after continents, clouds
torn loose, the trees all bending, ocean tides drowning. Everything's a blur, a flash. About my brother this time, mainly:
that look of craven need. Everything else springs from that: Hope, love, fear, sorrow.
At times though, terrifically. Other people, how do they sing that song? They sound just like birds. When I listen.
Words spell out time. They march across the page in somewhat disheveled but basically orderly fashion. Time is flight for this little bird.
The alleyways are lumpy, pitted in spots, swelling, heaving, sinking. Tripping me as I walk, rolling away behind me like laughter's
tongue. Wide eyed I owl the streets: it's well past midnight. The streets are empty, all the houses blind, and square as
tombs. There's something breathless in the air. The park I go to isn't far from the center of town. It's Saturday night.
People are coming and going from the bars. I sit on a bench. I'm alone. I sit near a lamp so I can be seen sitting alone.
I lean back on the bench and look up at the sky. Patches of clouds – patches of stars. The air is cool and smells so fresh
it must be almost clean. A slow breeze rustles the trees . . .
After a few minutes, I sit up straight. I'm still alone. I stretch, I stretch a good long time. Anyone could see me stretch, if they looked. Arms crooked up, chest expanded, belly so tight it almost touches my spine, anyone could see me. I'm alone. I arch my lower back, squeeze my buttcheeks together and open up my legs to show off my bulge. I'm wearing my favorite pants for doing this. They're light blue, the cloth very thin, very soft, and very clingy. My penis pulses. Cars go by. I'm still alone. I get up, wander my way slowly back out onto the streets. Go up a block, make a right, cut across a vacant lot, skirting pools of streetlight, owling every passing vehicle, truck, car, any make, whatever. Until one of them slows. Just like I knew one would. It pauses at the corner, engine rumbling, then turns left. So do I. Casting my eyes down the street I see it, still a ways ahead of me but moving slow. I saunter towards it, walking not too fast but in an interested way. It makes another left at the next corner. I do the same, and . . . yes! There it is, halfways down the block, pulled up beside the curb, motor thrumming. I'm approaching it very slow now, owling up the driver as I go. I see he's going bald. I see he has a slight paunch. The closer I get he gives me nervous, hungry looks through the windshield. I stop under a streetlight and wait. He likes what he sees. I can see him liking what he sees. His hand motions me towards him. I cast a quick glance to either side, then step forward. The night is breathless. Shadows shift with the moving light. The car, a thing of rubber, metal and glass, looms before me. I look, and I see. I'm not smiling, but he is. How could I resist? I pull on the door handle and slide in.