Monday, March 02, 2009


Alright now. It’s time for lunch; come and toast your marshmallows over the roasting pit that is my groin. Look here, just like a pit dug for a fire in the wilderness, here lies my own personal camp site blackened with the soot and charcoal so that it looks like a dank and dripping cavern that goes on and on. There is a physical limit to its depth. Like Jonathan Livingston Seagull, if your travel through this tunnel you will hit a wall where you will have to leave your body behind, but by then you’ll be flying so fast you won’t need that body any more, glistening as it does with beads of sweat like the sequins on an absinthe intoxicated flappers dress. By then, you’ll be flying with me in perfect seamless unity powered by the engine of grinding hips and in the faint distance you can hear the heavy breathing and moaning, but by now the blackest abyss has opened up in front of you and you spiral into it with me. We are a nameless formless thing swallowing itself endlessly as it deepens.
This is how we feed ourselves, when no one is looking, we come out like black eyed deer to drink from pools that reach down through the center of the earth and back out again into the farthest reaches of that star flecked darkness. Slurp! We suck in the dreams of our ancestors, the dreams of the first flecks of electrically charged specks of flint dust that came together in the nothing for a camp side sing along. Mamma electron in her shredded fishnets and leather mini skirt dances around Papa proton reclining in the cool shadows licked by flame, the rolls of his flabby stomach creeping out from under his greasy white tee shirt to hang over the black leather belt studded with silver, his beard trailing down over that unmovable gut. And then after she has wiggled her ass for him a bit she spots another camp fire not too far off and splits and he’s left muttering and weeping,
"Goddamn cunt! Got no fucking loyalty!" And another little dancer in the dark hears him sniffling and sees his sad little fire and aching with tingling desire brings some more kindling, rubs her tits in his face and says,
"Hey Papa don’t cry. I’ll keep you company." And so it goes on and on forever, and we drink deeply of it, letting it soak into our insides like kerosene poured over old rags.
It seems that this primordial dance is everything, a center for our worship to reside in, a Mecca to travel to and then, foot sore, throw ourselves down upon our knees and sway. Then we discover that it is not the destination at all, but rather the mouth of the true road, the point from which the real pilgrimage will be launched.
It is the matrix we skip upon like fantasia fairies skating on the surface of a freezing pond, the stage from which we may launch any story at all. We make our roads in the forge, from out of this primordial union, all pattern, all twisting labyrinths emerge. All of that rubbing and gasping, shuddering and screaming is our play dough, ready to be made into new shapes.
What do I know about the universe, about the cosmos?
Men go away and study at universities learning the mating habits of hydrogen and oxygen. I go to bed and look at what bubbles up from my only connection to every experience I have ever had; my self, spreading out like the scattered pieces of a fractured mirror.
What is this stuff?
What am I?
What is this experience we call life and its nympho sister death, always sneaking into life’s room to suck at it while everyone looks away frightened, ashamed, and embarrassed.
How can I pretend that it isn’t all me?
That it hasn’t all arisen from me, or that I haven’t arisen from it so that any nightmare that can crawl onto my back and make me scream and every dream that awes me with tantalizing beauty is the face of my own origin.
I am the ugliest.
I am the most lovely.
I am all things scattered upon the floor and I am no thing reflecting the face of no other thing.
When the black man comes to me and asks why I haven’t called him, I know that it is because I have forgotten him, lost in the maze that we made together, but in the very shape of my hands lie the clues as to who I am and who he may be. And we two are made to fly together, writhing by the fire.
So come now and warm yourself and feed yourself at my pit. We have many camp side stories to tell in the language of dilated pupils and advancing heart rates.

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