by Tomorrow's Man
Today, May 16, 2003, is the third anniversary of Texticity.
Texticity, and I, are going on hiatus.
We might not be back.
Or
Do not say this to your new co-workers:
"Well, folks, I've been working here a month. So: Am I the bee's knees, or just an armpit?"
They won't get it.
Whatever it is.
The bloodstream's singing a buzzy tune, see laughter shaking me into a kaleidoscope rodeo of unfocused skin and tidal thought, should get some food, hm, cut out the caffeine, hm, cut down the nicotene, hmm, but not yet, not just yet, this is the kind of feeling that deserves staying with, on, in, of for the entire ride.
I slide this stanza down with a snakeskin whispering a verse across hot rocks in a sea of soft violet as my hands climb the piano of your spine, setting off your high keys and low saltwater with my serpent smile shushing laughter against the sensitive hairs raised on your nape, and as these fingers now trickle down your back I'll smill and shush myself high into the oasis that awaits me.
I'm rolling in a dream...clouds outside, spiralling around a strawberry sunset...I'm swaying, warm...my eyes are gold...in my arms is blood and muscle, strong, joy...I'm the indigo sky, promising something tomorrow, but keeping you guessing; look out your window in the morning, open your eyes, see me, glowing golden and indigo...see if I've brought strawberries, and if so, eat sweetly.
I am listening to the tornado sirens tell all of Madison that this could be a big one, folks. The door is open. The music is quiet, as I listen for the sub-bass rumble.
Perhaps this is what I was waiting for.
I've become a naked history. Pageless, parchement free, a book of only covers. I'm hiding the pages. Want to see? Read me. Come closer.
Read my naked history.
Digits VI
Fountain. Shower. You are the phantom joy of every typhoon. Spout. Fountain. You vibrate like Shiva's alarm. Spray. Shower. You have raised yourself above control of the brain, above the real, above the definition of man. You are the mother of all salt water. You are the father of life. Your damp digits tell you so.
Let the world know.
Digits V
Time gets lodged in your honey hemoglobin and every moment that should be passing becomes yet another digit-tip. The universe becomes the pea beneath the seventeenth mattress of your humid palm of onanism, of ecstasy. The 9-volt on your tongue leaves parts of you numb but oh, oh, no, not that part, not the well, bottomless. That water in you, it boils.
Digits IV
Your body is a Moebius Strip. Your digits are slow motion race cars in velvet gloves. Your center is a well, bottomless. Time is a penny. You are thirsty. Make a splash.
Splash.
Digits III
If you are in the shower, imagine ecstatic flying fish laughing through the shower stream. All of the animals' fin-wings barely touch your flesh, leaving each a single of a million electricities. If you are in work, imagine your boss in the stall next to you doing the exact same thing, muffled voice, gentle self-stroking. If you are in your car, go faster. If you are outside, or inside, imagine all of us watchers...watching.
Digits II
The sensations flower and ladder their way slowly up your spine. It's the feel of a 9-volt on your tongue, honey filling your bloodstream, your pulse pushing hot bee-sugar toward your fingers to stoke the fire. The second sensation is on a snow of butterflies whispering to the hair on your skin, whispering.
Digits I
Start with your hand as a stranger, you want it to be surprised, anxious, callow, first-time nervous. No introductions, just send it down, digits ready. Let your body think it is just getting a massage; keep its hopes in check, but also let it dream for more.
What I Did Today
~ Watched the woman in the expensive foreign car drive by behind her clear glass windshiled taking her own pulse, middle finger pressed to carotid, lips mumbling numbers into a cell phone.
~ Overheard people say things like, "He's better off alive," and, "Why would she just attack?," and, "They didn't know it was coming and that leaves me spinning."
~ Failed to not stare at the fellow with a hook for one hand and two fleshy nubbins for the other, but not because of the obvious -- that he was deformed, taking the bus, getting himself to work, courageous in the face of despair etc. -- but because he had a mullet haircut, which I just didn't understand since it would have to cancel out any sympathy sex he could have hoped to get.
~ Wondered why at least seven people in this State Street bar populated by no more than 30 were reading the Bible; my first thought was that Oprah must have found a recipe in it and made it overnight popular, as she does.
~ Decided every lyric about every song ever was, is, and will always be about me, including, "Louie, Louie."
~ Masturbated, again, this time fantasizing about cunnilingus and fellatio for everyone.
~ Asked the name of my big-time fry-daddy bus driver who looks like he'd have to rub off his eyebrows in consternation to figure out how to wipe himself. (Apparently, his name is, "...What?")
~ Wrote this stuff down.
"So...your first triplets...," was all I heard the bartender say before I walked with my Maibock to the bright front windows of the bar to sit, drink, wait for my connecting bus, and watch State Street entertain me the while.
It got me thinking and I had to smile, and big, I tell you. I'd like to think I could say something like that to somebody but!, but...but say it so UN-ironically that the tired baggage under their bloodshot eyes would just dissolve down their face, their eyes leaping from their head, scurrying away into the burning dust beneath the pool table in frightened apoplexy at the idea of a half-dozen infant by-blows puking about the house.
It would be magical to achieve that intense a level of sincere conversational ability that could make a sentence such as 'so...your first triplets...' worthy of the cause of two and four and six wickerish baskets left on two and four and six church pews (quite a thing it would be if they were all in the same church, quite a thing) or, maybe just the cause of a medium-length patrisuicide via Jim Beam.
Yes. Well.
I may have odd aspirations, but thank heaven and zygotes that I do not have triplets.