Hypotheticals for Dirty Girls

Everything is ending but this:

#1:

The blunted eye would have missed it all, and fairly so; their pinky fingers barely touched. But the outer-space sparkle in his eyes and her mouth was obvious to anyone who's ever seen a tree struck by lightning. He was stunned, still smoldering, his shell starkly singed. Sparks flashed beneath his skin and he burned blissfully where leaves had caught afire around his face. As the thunderous storm clouds cleared a blinding light shone from where she stood; similarly goddesses shine with celestial power, love and mercy for mortals. When she laughed widely little silver stars glittered between her teeth.

Another Time

The sky white-striped, bruised shins, the hot sun, old tunes permeating the air like an amber whistle, me thirsty, my head stuffed distinctly like it is when I'm sick or sad...

Details don't matter; I am biking 3 miles to surprise him. We exchange a half-hour of horrifying tenderness. I take another route home so things will not be exactly the way they used to be.

Rebellion

Today is Thursday and I am very close to someone I have loved for a long time. I’m not a musical man but my heart sings, well, hums maybe. Clichés are underrated in my opinion. Clichés become clichés because people understand them better than anything. In that way they are quite respectable.

I am indulgently dwelling on the image of her entrance. She pushes her way through the door quietly with a bottle of bubbly water in hand, wearing a long soft dress. I can tell she has a headache again because of the tension around her eyes. I always smell verbena when she is near but this is likely to be because of my imagination. The book in my hands feels suddenly too heavy. She scans the room for me and I am honored. What follows is the moment when our eyes meet after years apart but I haven’t been able to describe that yet.

It was challenging for me to contend with my love all this time. When I was younger love intimidated me and I tried to kill it. When that didn’t work I tried to abandon the part of myself where this love lived. Alcohol sufficed most of the time. Of course, since the entirety of my being was consumed by love this didn’t work either, but it took me much longer to realize that.

So I left, desperately. I ran as far away as I could, hoping that my love would starve. However, love is much like mold, thriving in warm dark places such as my heart, and was self-sufficient by the time I had left. She fretted, sending me letters that I burned in the envelope. I grew up and returned but only after I had wasted much time.

Now that I am older I am at peace with this love, finally, letting it take shelter within me. What fascinates me is the reason for its longevity in such harsh circumstances. She was young when I left and has changed twofold countless times, but even when she was almost completely different from herself I still loved her. I believe in a sort of jewel within her, an emerald perhaps; green is pure and fresh. It is almost religion to me and I praise it when I see it reflecting sunlight through her eyes. I think maybe I have loved that jewel for all this time, but being wiser now I understand that I can’t know anything for sure.

The phone shook in my hand when I called her to ask her to meet me and I felt like a schoolboy again. Any bookstore would have done but this one was perfect, an old one with musty titles, about to go out of business. I turned pages blindly for hours. I worried that too much time had passed, that I had pushed my chance out of my fingers. I kicked myself, cursed my stupidity, almost broken when she walked through the door.

My best attempt to describe the moment when our eyes met was that I died and saw the heaven that my religion had promised me. She smiled brilliantly and I slipped back to life. There is time yet.

A La Mode

we do surely trust desire,
forced to walk this cold old road
forgetting how the heart will tire
of gravel offered a la mode
that French fashion found its place
in cavities and old boutiques,
leaving hearts without a trace
of sympathy for flushed pink cheeks
sticky with vanilla cream,
brain freeze eyes that flow with tears,
red meat soles that ooze and gleam
raw from pebbles, hopes and fears,
mercy cannot live for those
that French fashion comes and goes

Follow

There are no good moments fighting the wind, lips to fingers, fingers to air, blindly finding direction. Sand scattering erodes boulders and soft tissue. The Sphinx, its nose crumbling, lips chapped, eyes dry. Tunes come and go, lips to fingers, fingers to air. The wind is quiet.

Flesh Trappings

The flesh is a formidable enemy. Sleep with one eye open lest it attack during the night while your guard has been let down. Mental asceticism will reduce the risk of psychic ambush. Keep your loved ones close, lock up your valuables, protect your memories; the flesh will prey on these commodities without compassion or mercy.

There are a number of harms to be done to the flesh in self-defense. Interrupting the blood flow will debilitate it, and the methodical removal of digits will reduce it to binary code. With brutal discipline, the flesh can be stopped along with its tyrannical reign. Remember that the flesh wants you, but doesn't need you.

Metal

Occasionally I find myself drawing pits of black eyeliner around my eyes to see what it looks like, or salivating over skulls and bones, or getting thrills from Tarantinian carnage, or writing accidentally about death and guns, or cracking my bones to violent music. This is my evil side.

I recently sacrificed flesh to my evil side, jamming a nasty spiked ring through the curve of my ear. It deserves such a gesture of honor. Now I have something tangible to blame.