The fact of the moon showed between the jagged teeth of the
city that never sleeps, a sneaky Pete who watches what transpires on this side
where I wander, the stone walls of the precipice looking over my head, and, of
course, I think of her, now years out of date, her fate taking her places I
cannot possibly reach, like the surface of the moon, and like that moon, I
sometimes feel half hidden, always almost obvious, yet unable to surrender,
condemned to be condemned, my face reflected the way the moon’s face is
reflected on the uneven turbulent surface of the river at my feet, this flow
constantly churned up by the parade of ferries, and tug boats, and cruise ships,
many of which settle here near me or across the river in ancient docks, as I
stand and clutch the rail as if scared to fall, this place a memorial to something
long gone yet vividly remembered, the moon light on the river top a perpetual
recollection of how fragile love can be, even when not misguided the way mine
was. I am the moon peeking out between the skyscrapers, pretending I cannot be
seen when I always am, always too exposed, feeling as broken as the river top,
feeling as if the world will end if I rise too high or fall too law, scared to
rise above the skyline where I have nothing to hide behind, when even the dark
sky exposes me.
I watched it happen as if a porno movie, male bodies moving
over her, beasts getting their piece, while I sat helpless staring, a pathetic
19 year old with the illusion she was my girl and would stay loyal.
Sledge Hammer Harry had warned me about her when I got the job
in the print factory where she also worked. She had slept with his son and law,
and likely other workers at the factory.
Too young, too much in love with a slightly older woman, I
didn’t listen.
I paid no mind to the stories about her nefarious deeds and
her insatiable appetite no ordinary man (least of all me) could satisfy, such her
high school reputation and what she did under the viewing stands with the
entire team, or that camping trip she took in Colorado where she tried (and
largely succeeded) in fucking one man after another until she got to them all
and still felt horny.
I though all that would end when she took up with me and we
moved to LA, getting an apartment of our own like a married couple.
The knock on the door was the beginning of the end, a census
taker who became taken with her, and her with him, despite my being in the same
room with them, leaving me relieved when he finally vanished back into the
night out of which he had come, showing up a few days later with five of his
friends and a shit load of drugs in order to party, distributing LSD as if it
was candy, and neither of us knowing much gobble up the pills as such.
I drifted into a haze, unable to distinguish real from unread,
and she, right from wrong.
The census taker taking more than the census, hands plying
her chest, laying her down on the oriental rug to take even more, he followed
by his friends, all of whom smiled at me in my stupor, she laughing as if each
of them was an old friend, taking turns at each doorway, front and back and up
top as she kept her mouth busy, and later, when they had gone, she telling me
it was no big deal, telling me I needed to get used to it, that it would happen
again.
Mistresses keep their sissies in line by keeping them aroused,
letting their hormone simmer until they need to perform.
I don’t have that problem, I’m always aroused, a low hum
that vibrates through me 24 hours 7 days a week, not loud enough to get erect,
a kind of quiet self-torture I must endured, having no adequate way to satisfy it
– our lives dictated by things beyond our control.
I should have become a priest like the nuns suggested or
maybe a nun to justify my lack of release, while I envy those who live their
lives without constraint, who trade partners like baseball cards, who can
collect a temporary harem with just the snap of a finger, the men and women who
have no shame, no fear of punishment in the afterlife – while I constantly hesitate,
scared to offend, and so end up in a puddle full of guppies in a world where
only the sharks thrive.
I can picture her in leather, head to toe, though I doubt
she can, a chameleon that slips n and out of our lives, with each new shell she
adopts, providing her with a new, unrecognizable skin, she shimmering in the
night before she vanishes again.
I don’t see her as cruel, even though she sometimes seems to
be, finding strength in the perception she can control us, when in the dark of
night or the dawn of day, she has her doubts, as this mistress loses vitality
and must turn back into a little girl, leaving behind on the dance floor
perhaps, one of her spike-healed boots, aching for Prince Charming to find her,
he neve does, but she never stops trying,.
They walk hand in hand along the boardwalk, the tall boy
with red hair, a shorter boy whose hair is black and neck graced with tattoos,
two kids straight out of a time when I was one of them, only then I came to
places like this in search of girls, always going home empty-handed, when this
is not the case for these two, who like us are not part of the popular set,
mocked by jocks, beaten up by hoods, held together by the common terror of high
school, needing love popular girls won’t give them, yet somehow managing to
avoid the wasteland our generation was forced to confront, these two walking
hand in hand, defiant, battling the same loneliness, but armed with the arms of
each other. I envy them, these two walking proud, here in a place when at their
age, I felt so lonely.
History, for the unwary, tends to repeat itself, and at this
late date, I wish it would, to go back, pick up the pieces of what I let fall
apart and do it all over again, avoiding the pitfalls that caused the catastrophe
in the first place, this need to feel what I felt then, for real, the tender
touch, the brief embrace, the gentle kiss, dark talk in the dark that so
stirred up my hormones, stirred me for fervently than any witch’s brew, this
spell I fell under then to fall under again, though I know, I never will, the
bits of past we wish for never come back, click our heals or not, no magic balloon
to return us to Kansas, no ruby shoes, no broom stick, only the memory, a history
that flatly refuses to return, to bless us with a second chance in a world
where such dreams never come true.
