September 3, 2007

Found recently: the fountain of youth. Yeah it was pretty huge. I know. I know. Ha, stop. Listen to me man, I saw all these kids walkin' down a trail at sunset, errr, it may have been dawn. The octogenarian was talking to a skinny blonde girl with dense, ugly tattoos scattered grossly all over her stupid body. Spry, but could his cock still work? Down the jet stream, gazin' down, searching the gray fields with the cold wind at his back. To the desert plain.

He found it, he found her. Such a pretty girl, purple pattern-silk and lazy-green underskirt. On a motorcycle, caressing windy, straight-road America. Looked up to see me, the lucky one, searching. Searching for that high-roofed garage. I sought gold and diamond rings. Walk through these rooms, to the valley floor. I hope I remember the light and the crazy yellow-red pattern. Remember the meals and their tastes. Remember the longing. Remember the colors and smells and the volumes. I hope I remember every instance of everything I've done—the sensations. I keep crashing, I keep learning. Searching for she who feeds mulberries to yuanworms.

Laughing at little things, calling those things sacred, the man with the blue shirt and turquoise belt remembered 1980. He remembered glimpses of him on his motorcycle, tracing the perpendicular midwest roads for months at a time. The sun and the smelly leather. Oh Adolfo! Oh Ronald! I fell in love with the one with the shoulder-straps and the basket boughs from Katsura. And I promised I'd treat her sweet and lewd, and I rubbed her earlobes of pearl and sent a wild scream through her. I was the lucky one. The chopsticks, she was my beautiful reward. Her name was Rafu, but called herself, "Ditalina." I called her mine.

Oh I need her and her circles. She is my shield and my sword. She is God's light, though her bones are frozen. Send me up baby. Oh baby let me cook for you. I want it, I want the crossing again, I want my youth and the longing. I want your green underskirt. Am I too forward now? Is my wrinkled forearm and my aged facial scars too grotesque for your tastes? I don't have time to spare. I don't have a lifetime to forget. I need this and I need it now don't direct me to your hopeless exit. Don't promise me "later." Don't walk me to your door. I need it now this belt is a clip-on.

As I was thinking all this some young studs looked on—they don't get it.