The proud parent thinking that they had done the right thing taking their child to the amusement park asked, “Well! How was it?” The little boy stared back quizzically and replied, “I’ll tell you when I finally get back from the very last one.” And who of any of us can say that we have ever gotten off that merry-go-round since? Or indeed have wanted to? Even if it finally kills everything about us that may have been decent in the end? We spend the night in fear of our own cowardice to act in our own behalf. Leaders and perpetrators may be one and the same but the real party at fault is ourselves for going along. Is the life of a fantasy soaked slave so sweet that he cannot risk breaking his chains? What is so magnificent about carrying the very weapon of your enemy about in your hand and then taking it’s cancerous emanations into your head? Who told you that you could not wash your own clothing by hand in a washtub? Who told you that you had to allow yourself to be injected with the same poison that is spread by the same institutions that wish to eliminate you? Why must your take a necktie as anything beyond what it is intended to symbolize beyond a noose that you eventually hang yourself with? The populations of the major cities are simply self deluded fools that think that their lifetimes are simply about being owned like spoiled pets. Fulfilling a false illusion of individuality while in fact they are merely rearranged cogs glued into place on phantom wheels designed to grind them into their own slow inevitable destruction. The plans of which having been planted through careful drama’s endless repetition written by those very enemies that have lived amidst them for generations as parasites. The existence that your persist in perpetuating is your own folly and no one else’s. You let ‘evil‘ rule existence, that less than ironic polar opposite of ‘live‘, and then wait around humbly, like empty headed sheep, for the consequences to catch up to you. The only sure thing in this equation being your own assured end on someone else’s terms.
There is no greater wellspring of regret than in long lost desire for love once again reawakened. The rejection of that false promise that one has made a pact with to have one’s way or die. So who is pretentious now? The sore hollow fool that will follow through for a score of moments this scripted scenario of eternal failure? This game of finding regret by what one has not done rather than simply re-enacting the fable of what one should have known better so much longer than long ago? The accumulation of first impressions that still remain stacked up against one like a house of cards. If fools there be that run this world then you are both their dean and their teacher! To be mad in lust with someone so much so that you hate them for their sanity in staying clear. Volcanic soil undisturbed by soiled footprints of the commonality of reason in unconsciously recalling events locked within. Imprisoned in their own way that they never are allowed to become the primary cause of one’s own life of farce and folly. To sully the ivory and gold of what they once took in for a golden moment in ions long ago and try to pick away and chip the jewels from their mountings it like a thief. Boxcars undulating on steel rails overloaded moving ever slower now as the train nears the final station. So many players now long and permanently gone. Fallen away by the wayside into histories dust of what once was and never could have ever been. Overlapping dramas repetitively announcing that same old singular story of have and have not. How pathetically frail is one at their core to turn to lead every golden memory that one has touched. To make villains out of all those that one had once long ago had thought they had known. And then blame them for not one’s self having known better.
He had her hypnotized her. But she silently complied. Going under at a countdown and then the instant orgasm produced at the snap of his fingers. A funny little game. “Oh“, she cooed, “Where are my clothes?“, as she rhythmically undulated her hips to and fro. The camera rolling its red light blinking. (Snap!) his fingers replied. Somewhere in the room a long deep moan easing out slowly like warm toothpaste from a newly flattened tube. She caught with her forefinger between her lips unconsciously tasting herself. “Where was that in my set of instructions?“, he quietly mused to himself? Her hips not skipping a cycle reciprocating constantly though more violently. The same eternal grin of that silly stupid smile breaking out on her features as it does with all women when they are doing something ‘naughty‘ and enjoying it to the max. (Snap!) once again. Her expression shagging. Transformed from the casement of pleasure into a fluttering sense of pleasurable distress. “You will keep dancing but when I snap my fingers again your orgasms will be one-hundred times stronger!“, he forcefully mumbled. An internal dialogue within before a bed sheet movie screen flickering forth a Keystone cop melodrama with him twirling his mustache in black cape and tall hat as the door is battered in and a row of nightstick wielding clowns tumble in after it. “I never touched her!“, being the initial defense disturbing the scene before him. (Snap!) (Snap!) That same low earthquake moan resounding once again as her two legs threatened to sink away towards the floor from their rhythm into an gratifying collapse. Somewhere from a distant past discarded thought reflecting an eddy of dissatisfaction in the possibility of by her own disclaimer her body being unworthy of desire. The apparition of those badly matched breasts dangling awkward before her narrowed eye’s interrogation fading away as quickly as it had been summoned up. “Tic Tock! Tick Tock, Tic Tock!” The Sine wave of her flanks resuming their constant wobbly pattern as before in time with the expectation of the resumption of that fluttering within. “Dirty louse!“, her mother’s voice suddenly echoed within her cranium from afar . “Getting his jolly’s is he!” Her eye catching his. The palpitations within suddenly ramping up at her own twinge of guilty shame. “Naked!” her brain declared from a distant window overhead. “I am finally naked to the world and I don’t care!” (Snap!), (Snap!), (Snap!) Pow! “Dirty louse!“, the little mouse-like voice ringing out softly again as it tumbled far away. The dance continuing forth throughout that coming night.
They had been in the hotel suite now for what must have been almost a half a day. The matter of clothes had been left at the foot of the bed. She had the tone of one that had just cleared adolescence even though she was numerically well beyond it. He looked at life from the other end of the scale of years. Naked in the mirror there could not have been more of a mismatch had one tried to imagine it. The ardor of their meeting had long past and passion was looking for an excuse to one again loom high above any judgement of time or places to be. She would be fired. That was obvious when the doors of the suite were open and she had to retrieve her street clothes and replace the hotel uniform that she had worn when she had delivered the room service to Mr. Manny. She looked at him as he sat on the edge of the bed staring into empty space. A second cigarette he had pulled from the pack that had been spirited away from inside the crumble of his sports jacket laying inside flap open on the carpet beside her undergarments. As a lay, he had been underwhelming. Though well-hung and no doubt exceedingly more vigorous in his youthful days, their encounter in coupling had been thankfully brief. More an alternating series of her serving him on her knees and then infrequently turning about to present herself to his ever flagging enthusiasm. Impotence not a matter of culinary excess in fine wine and spirits liberally laced with narcotics. His bull had been out to pasture for some time. The persistence that she had shown was more a matter of respect and politeness than any hope for the completion of a climax on either of their parts.
She watched him slowly exhale smoke as she wondered briefly if he found her more attractive for her youth than for her somewhat lanky feminine curves. Perhaps his ethnic Italian background felt more in tune with a heftier sort of female? “More to grab onto!”, as she had long ago heard some boys in her high school quip in their unabashed review prom dates barely sullied save for the imagination. She had to question her own attraction as she contemplated the strange nature that men ever seemed to present. Always in hot pursuit of you caught senseless in a frenzied chase like some half mad fox hound intoxicated by the scent of available prey lurking about the neighborhood. But their instincts, more times than not, quickly quenched after a brief introductory round of furtive coupling. Then an unapologetic excuse or mumble to avoid camping out with he on the wet spot. But maybe too it was her in some way? She had a way of beating them to the punch in the matter of her one self satisfaction. Making their attempts at foreplay served upon her a competition with her own ministrations to ensure her own pleasure. If they took the cue and worked a different ‘part of town’ it in some cases had been a plus. But some indeed were put off and were soon to lose interest in more than a brief round of satisfaction to honor their instincts that had been unleashed.
There was something very compelling to her having had a television icon from her youth. Something that violated a basic sense of family propriety akin to being too long bouncing legs a straddle upon her elder uncle’s bony knees. That didn’t seem right. Not that she could ever recall any incident from her own family on either side! It was just the idea of it now remotely caught in the recesses of her own head. The role play of being bad and doing something forbidden that made her stir hot and warm deep down low. The idea also that she like some native American savage of ancient plains combat had now counted coup and could add this experience to her psychological lodge pole. Mr. Manny had been deposed. The experience of the completion of this seduction had stolen the novelty of his name and fame. And he had been left just an old pathetic man who had the good fortune to enjoy the experience of a young female once more. A pleasure that he had no shame in claiming even though it was based upon a measure of fame that had long ago gone into permanent hibernation in the province of late night series reruns. How many women had he briefly and intimately known in the course of his career she wondered? It was obvious that she would not be remembered past the night. She felt a firm nudge at her side and she looked down to see his well-jeweled paw with two hundreds twixt its stubby fingers. He tapping her gently again as she politely took the bills.
It was just past the second shift and she knew that it was a good time to go. Without a sentence she gathered up her portion of the piled clothing. Maybe she would have better luck in keeping her position than she suspected? His gravely voice issued a casual relaxed, “thanks.”, From behind her. As if he had just simply tipped a masseuse after the conclusion of a rub down session. It seemed a funny way to look at their sojourn. Simply a session to garner a little relaxation. Something that she conjectured kept him focus in the present instead of dwelling on the long lost past. A form of therapy. Strange too think of it that way? What life would be like for her when it was her time? A women caught far past any ability to enjoy her own hormones anymore when a persistent nagging feeling of a need to be comforted would rise in importance above the need for achieving a solid orgasm? For men it seemed holding hands was never enough. Always something more to prove to themselves. Lost little boys caught in misshapen aged weary forms that defied the former vitality of youth. Dirty little boys poking and pressing their nasty parts onto you. More to impress themselves than you that they were still there and very much alive. For her it seemed, a pair of older more experienced hands that were confidently sure in their routines speaking volumes in a slow pagination of seduction. Those well-versed with the intricate folds and creases of a woman. And how to apply themselves without becoming embarrassingly awkward. A form of abandon that suited that lingering little girl inside and her constant craving for perfection. One that she was still reluctant to acknowledge in finding herself fully cast as just another woman.
it was a pleasant sunny day strolling down the sidewalk at the edge of the beach by the water. The adjacent bike path’s traffic was slowly buildings with weekend ‘Tour de France’ aficionados many of whom who seemed to confuse occasional pedestrian traffic crossing their path as some form of momentary personal vendetta. Approaching the meander of the six lane highway to the other side of the ritzier section of the city’s center the Brahman section of the beach came into view. I knew that I was out of my depth strolling down this part of the beach. One that was unofficially reserved by some unspoken fiat for those in full flower of youth and wealth. And here was I nearly four decades past same taking my time at a pace that was annoying to all constituents of that age group! But there were no stanchions along the path to keep the riff raffia out of their zone. And my pittance of tax money was a good as the massive amounts that many of their parents declined to pay so rather than cross over under the tunnel below the big highway to an adjoining side street I rallied forth at the exact same slow maddeningly pace obliviously taking in any and all surrounding me as if it were part of a circus midway. And for someone such as myself, as I have said, being a multiple of three times the age of nearly all those before me nearly in the buff and vainglorious exposing as much well-tanned buff flesh as possible I am sure I was just as problematic. If not in the eyes as problematic as the occasional appearance of one of their parent’s in swimwear that might have exposed all the most unwanted bulges that their well-tanned sensibilities would have been fearfully abhorrent of. The current day’s propriety of this region not tolerant of an Michelin males or Pillsbury dough people.
One section demanded that all who dare not risk life and limb challenging the eminent domain of the nearby velocipede superhighway had to descend via an old crumbling concrete stairwell to walk amidst the well-heeled Lancome Bienfait buttered bun skinny thong-habited indigene. Granite ‘six pack‘ torsos supporting swollen biceps silently hard at work to garner temporal admiration within the surround of diffident maiden flesh. Their own ample Venus de Milo marbled chassis sporting sparsely covered surgically over-inflated boobies lounging like seals on the expanse of the low waist high sea wall. My own tiny, oft forgotten, ‘Johnson‘ becoming a tad nervously restless at this enfolding spectacle below I courageously descended. An navigational hazard appeared in my peripheral vision sitting somewhat draped on the treads ten steps down. A young man with his physical form lounging Etruscan couch style indifferently taking up a good part of the real estate nearly blocking egress into the teaming youthful morass below. My efforts to be covertly as circuitous as possible bruised by his verbal interjection. “Would you mind giving me a hand?“, the Apollonian face spoke in my direction. As if uttering some obscure stern quip from the more erudite unexplored postings of a lesser know ancient Greek poet. I looked back at him with trepidation as I had managed to circumnavigate his obstruction with what I took to be an extraordinary degree of stealth. What inordinate rule of the Gods had I transgressed to bring forth an utterance. Then I turned a bit and noticed that his lower limbs were quite thin and limp. His sunglasses armed continence directed its fire my way once again “Would you mind giving me a hand?” I stood there dumb as an ox. His appearance was no less than any other of nearby Narcissus. In fact, given the level of vesture and accompanying the Hublot chronometer and Roman Paul neck chain it might have been easily said that his was more than a few rungs above. “A Lift . . . in the literal sense!” Obviously considered an ox by this young man. Something though in my own private conversation informed me that this was a challenge of sorts. Not some saccharine issue of what might have been considered Good Samaritan gesture. But a challenge on the level of laying down a gauntlet with the corresponding probability of a dueling scar or worse. An act of retreat signifying cowardice. I didn’t consider that I might possibly fail to be able to lift him up. Surprisingly, up in the air he went and my back after many years of wear and teas held. I now served as pachyderm.
It was a strange career where though I was publicly scorned and privately invisible my talents at discretion and still adequate arms brought me into unimagined circles as this young gentleman’s man’s man in public. A role that I had once scorned but when actively taken on led to unofficial wealth and access to a portion of the world that I had vaguely heard of but never really knew existed. In some strange way I became the focus of a certain calling within the atmosphere of general decadence that this young gentleman traveled. Perhaps his own perverse nature as a millennial in wanting to be seen carried into venues by an aging ‘baby boomer‘ whetted some inner private fantasy of his own? While perceptibly considerable as ‘Gay’ in tastes to a casual outsider, agnostic to all things overtly sexual in practice focusing more on the regal exercise of power rather than real world participation. The demonstrated example of which led to a certain ranking of young attractive females in the environs approached were likely to approach who were willing to enthusiastically advance their desire to off participation in very forward offers of offbeat sexual gratification. Ones where I was tasked as their centerpiece. For me in those times of my scheduled performance in ceremonial entry and ultimate egress it was like reliving my own licentious young adulthood. A special status that for a while was entertaining but in light of age, stamina and reason soon became too problematic. I found myself comparing the levels of perversity’s engaged in. And to some degree found a fellow traveler in that regard from the behavior of my benefactor who only allowed himself to be engaged in an abbreviated version of some offbeat calling when it involved him ‘riding int he saddle‘ as opposed to serving as the conveyance. Humiliation having been foisted on him by the fact of his physical condition but not by current avocation to continue it through physical lip service. It was odd that like some Vaudeville performer of yore when found off-stage he treated me with a certain silent unspoken respect. An essential to his act that as it seemed to garner the affection of each audience he would not deign to tamper with or defame. The lesson that time and a variety of extraordinary experiences soon providing was that the human race as a single species was indeed a strange animal. And like any other animal in an unsure and chaotic universe had to be unscrupulously tamed and kept under tight control lest it eventually lead to the demise of it’s master.
My fantasy of a French girl. Somehow the topic of love got lost in the bargain. My fantasy of being adept at understanding French but not so well that they catch on because I don’t want to know too much. Just enough. Nothing to spoil the illusion of white skin beauty and madness. It is her craziness that I love and respect. Respect like I do my own. You have to be crazy and alive to last in this world. When you lose that you die. Ia am currently dead! All these impossible affinities with dolls safely out of reach. Atonement for the major fuck ups of my life. A long career of bumps in the road. Of bumps in the night. Of losing my fear of too much and therefore not respecting anything anymore. Sad possibilities of serving an infernal sentence. I want to be its master and not its slave. But I am afraid that that is not possible. No longer possible.
I want a French girl! Because I know that they know how to suffer regret. Sluts all of them at heart! Ready to sell themselves to lost causes and arrogant about it. Crystal glass playthings that fracture so easily and need a lifetime of patching up. So fragile and delicate. France being the endless journey looking for what. Lost little shanties full of wine and bead and lust. Disappointment abounding as with the rest of the world for things not coming out right but just being there. For daily operas containing too many words. How I wish I could understand them all! No, I don’t. I would rather bruise my knees bloody at an altar at San Sulpice. The ritual being a way to attract my Madonna to climb down so we can go catch a drink. Those eyes so lively. How can a man not want to drown within them?
Two expresso’s! I need to talk this out. I can’t come back later. I haven’t been there at all! I want the fantasy but the woman comes along at no charge. That is the tough part. I don’t know if I am able to walk down the gangplank and never see myself again? To wake up right now and not see the same old cracks the ceiling. To turn over in bed and find a scrunched up face that has turned into what it has always been. An indifferent stranger who I have no possibility of ever getting to know. To be able to feel comfortable with. I want to marry a French girl. I once did. But, alas, as I recall now, that didn’t work out.
[narcotic afflicted voice] Kept waking up. Going back to sleep and it would always be three women. One a little on the chubby side. All of them young. Sorta of younger and uh . . . one I was after kind of thin or small. And then there was another one, larger and chubby but very happy. The other one was so sullen. And there was a third I would keep running into when I went out all the time. Sometimes I wouldn’t even have pants on or this or that. Kinda like I was going out so fast. And I would always ignore the one that was happy. The one that was not dumb but just not my type. Supposedly? But she would always be waiting. And then I ended up I put dentures inside because I felt I didn’t have enough teeth. I put them on and then realized they were my mom’s. And they sort of fit? But it was ridiculous. I mean it was just ridiculous. Like wearing a hair comb in your mouth or something? And I bought them all along. Three women.
[narcotic afflicted voice] I traveled to Colorado from a couple states just East in a new form of conveyance that was an anti-gravity unit that acted like a balloon except it was shaped like an old folly of a medieval tower with crenelated top and so forth. And while I was there it first of all had started out as a semi-tractor truck. A real large one. We were in the cab with the driver. And I remember holding a box or something? A suitcase when the truck was going downward the wood had hit the dashboard. Causing any damage? My girlfriend was underneath or something. Then we got close to town. And that’s when I discovered it really wasn’t a tractor trailer. It was an anti-gravity device of some kind that hovered above the ground. And I went outside as we were just on the outskirts of Denver on the front range. He had a little dog that was how would you say? It was around. But I went through the double doors that went out to the patio. And he sat there and he landed. When I came back they had the doors still open. But I closed the inner? The inner something or another.
I was (in) a Mafia town across the way. For in an open lot in somewhere like Elmwood Park or a place like that. Those sitting there over on of their wives. This was my duty. Each man of course be around, but don’t be around. And don’t be too friendly! I was in the living room when I noticed that the living room we crossed had a couple beds. One for her one for me. Stay in your own goddamn bed and out of hers! Looking across to the way to the picture window, somebody brought in a contraption. It was essentially a big chair wired up with dynamite. The thing enthroned across the way. Then somebody came back and told about the latest toy they gotten. The son of the boss talked about how interested he was about the intricacies of the bomb and other stuff like that. He had been boasting away I didn’t know when the damn thing went off so I sat on the other side of the bed so the shards of glass wouldn’t do me in. A very arrogant sordid bunch.
A silent movie in my dreams. I am not sure what part I played? The straight laced young woman? Or the impetuous young man. But I can tell you that it was something along the lines of two lovers that wanted to escape. In the end though, I played the young man that wanted to steal away the woman. And he ended up he went to the kitchen to find her. And the father was blocking their progress with her just around the corner. And you could see him through the shelves at the edge of the entrance to the kitchen. And he saw me. And the father saw me. And the father was my father. The father that had died. And she went to run off but she said good by to him. And I think that was important to her that she could say goodbye to him so he knew that she loved him. But that she was going to go off with the man that she loved. At least, that was the end of it. A very classic situation.
“For the next hour we can fuck!” “For the next hour . . .” , she said, “We can fuck.” There was something about Albert and Lucy Parsons. An area of town that was not only haunted but historical. So, I met her at the theater. Or rather should I say, I found her in the theater where she said she would be. And she stalled a bit. And we went backstage initially on stage and then backstage. We ended up instead at the old two-story house. The neighborhood was dark. It was night. There was all sorts of rocks where there were sidewalks. They were doing some kind of repairs. But it was insanely destroyed. She hesitated. Coming up with all sorts of excuses. I knew that I was dealing with someone, or something that had been alive once but now was somewhat congealed in a regular human body again. Two big dogs went running across the street. They walked along as we had nearly consummated her boast. I thought for a second that they were going to attack. But they just bounded by. And all of a sudden I was with someone again.
I met a strange old lady. In some ways she was very ethereal. There was something very attractive about her. She seemingly was attractive to me. We were on the way coincidentally to the theater. For some reason she said out of nowhere, “I have some place to go in an hour.” “Until then we can go somewhere and you can have me.” And I followed her. But she didn’t make it easy. She went to an old theater and sat in the audience. And I was torn between the audience and the stage. Somehow, I came out on stage and performed a bit before I dragged her away. We went to our house which was an old two-story affair in the dark somewhere in an old neighborhood. And there, seemingly, we consummated the offer.
Though I might be re-imagining the story? What if the theater was the old Iroquois? And Eddie Foy was on stage? And it had burned down and she was one of the ones carried out who had never had a life. And as a disembodied spirit she wandered about looking for a suitor for the evening. Someone to bring her the life and the love she never had. That’s a story too. For my part, we did go to her house even though it was for a very short time. And make love. And have coitus in her bed. But it was fleeting as if equally almost an opportunity missed as it was assumed. There was at some point a liaison with someone on the next street. Across the street who had studied history of legends and ghosts one convinced that he knew all about the story. He said it happened a long time ago. But the neighborhood didn’t want this resurrected and didn’t like him. And there was much to dissuade him from continuing on with his quest. Save for myself he might make more money were he to fend off. He wouldn’t be remembered unless he continued on. And in that dark neighborhood I seemed to convince him to continue and go back and find the secret of who this entity was.
I’m in France in Paris. Some part of the town. Who knows? A large building, mixed use. It used to be a school. Part of it used to be a factory. All abandoned now. Except for the first floor with stores and restaurants and so forth. I’m with someone else. We went there to play journalist. We go through the place but we run into some really bad types. Involved with really bad bad things. Drug dealers. We know, we don’t want to run into them direct. So we beat a retreat through a maze of rooms. All of them old dusty original furniture’d and so forth. We managed to stay ahead of them but just barely. We know they’re looking for us. They must have heard us. Somebody must have said something. So, we’re now confused. We’re afraid if we get lost we’ll get cornered. Several times we run into blind alleys. Open up doors that are dead ends or closets. After retracing steps wondering how far behind us they are? I find a knife. A gray galvanized looking thing. It is actual painted gray with one edge. Not much? We run down a hallway into the school area. Open a couple doors. Dead ends. Finally, I find the one door that we came through. Or we think we did? It turns out to be a door into a restaurant. I palm the knife against my side under my arm pressing it hard so that no one can see it. And we walk through looking like we are a couple of ‘clocher’s‘. A couple bums. Into the street escaping with the knowledge now that we should not get into things over our heads.
Lincoln Park. “Oh yeah!” A review of sorts. A view of someone I was dating. A Jewish girl. A review that was not favorable. A view that had me panning her as I was walking down Clark turning on Lincoln. I can hear crying in the doorway somewhere. I’m doing my little personal review and find myself actually picking up from myself going to someone equally problematic. I end up I walk seemingly in place in the night and it’s not fun. So I end up finally reaching going around the corner. Escaping one and realizing that I am walking directly the other way. I’m walking back into the same thing! My luck with women is terrible. I have no temperament for them. I am too linear and not set up emotionally to handle them.