The dark

She waited for his first faint signs of sleep,

reached over and placed her hand on his belly

snuggled in the scent in the crook of his neck kissed his cheek until he giggled squirmed. 

He thought to ask questions, hope for something poetic, but instead pushed her hand down his belly to his cock and drifted into a half trance. Felt his spirit and mind float away to random clouds to rest where no mortal could follow or find him left his body there to be what it was, a godless animal. 

Thought was unimportant Thought was not desired

This moment was not ever meant to go beyond this moment

There were details and sensations, but nothing intended to be told to a child to give them hope for anything 

nothing to write about.

The stuff that goes on during soap opera commercials

The stuff that only freaks and perverts want to see

The stuff with no real purpose

At least I don’t believe there was anything intended 

Truthfully I can’t say. Never could

No one’s ever told me what the purpose was or is

He could’ve been dreaming but

he thought he heard her speak

He remembered she whispered, moaned, growled through gritted teeth

fighting back the words

“I’m coming”

He said 

“Thank you” He thinks he came too and He thinks he went to sleep

By afternoon light, hope was pointed like compass needles towards sexta-feira

when God proved he was not dead Like his Radio Flyer with red wooden slats on each side.

coasting down slow hills of North Campus family housing

it was all gone. Most time there was no reason to remember things that weren’t parts of everyday existence, they distracted from unknown dreams and goals that he had to be paying attention to recognize when they were manifest, because they’d be gone as soon as they appeared He had to keep receipts to remind him of how God had blessed him

He starred sideways into his mirror, sucked in his gut

tried to find some skinny orange skinned kid with rust red hair but was distracted by some strangers ashen graying rotting carcass holding his eyes and thoughts while his spirit went to visit anyplace that was not where he was. To kill time, he counted mosquito bites and held out as long as he could resist scratching before putting ointment on them. He quietly celebrated if published and properly marketed he’d have money to do something meaningful after something wasteful.

The neighbors next door or in the apartment below fucked or fought or moved furniture or something

He hoped they were making love,

Then lowered his expectation level to fucking that seemed more within reach. 

To prepare himself for whatever life held after sleep ended, he remembered being beaten senseless dozens of times by loved ones and unimportant people, until he was given permission to defend himself. Walking away was no longer someone else’s choice. The right to walk away after being warned had to be earned. He remembered when sleep pursued like tripping cheetahs, gladiators distracting masses from the hands in their pockets, feudal foot soldiers hoping to survive long enough to get paid, buy something to drink, pay some taxes, make love with a whore, going home to fuck the wife and beat the kids, angry proletariat mobs trampling paths to something long forgotten, Football players, shining in their jewelry and new outfits, troops of early Hippies, before getting mid-western girls hooked on penny caps of dope mixed with rat poison was a fashionable method of foreplay, limp dick old politicians and ministers that offered money to watch him fuck their wives, dates with someone else’s screaming groupies. The needle nosed pliers he used to remove engine plant shrapnel from his angry, drunken, exhausted mother’s feet, shotgun brands by their sound, the sting of exploded rock salt, bone, brain matter and sulfur in and on his skin. Back then, there was too much to do, see, learn and that angel would have to catch him pin him by the shoulders & beat him to sleep. Took twice the life expectancy of the average Blackman, but even that fight was finally beaten out of him. All he hoped for now, was to sleep and never wake again. Otherwise this quarter of life would be filled with trying to forget life’s pleasures and pains, followed by years trying to remember who he and everyone else was and why he’d forgotten. And as she slept next to him, Northern light caressing her face, illuminating a beauty that deserved an equal love, safe, comfortable, warm, gentle, affectionate, simple, and enduring, surrounded by hedges and white picket fences, he imagined himself some part of her joy. Tried to realize what that was, tried to guess what kind of life could make it true, bounced between envy and pity like a child on an old person’s knee, imagined what moment would be her cue to write whatever it was that he should have always known but could never find words to express. Shrugged his shoulders knowing tomorrow she’d be gone and he’d have to embrace his greatest fear. Shrugged his shoulders and knew at that point it wouldn’t be important what anyone thought of him. Smiled, checked the contents of his paint box, closed it, turned around, stared at his finished canvas a while and walked away.

After what could have been minutes or days crying to the point of heaving, Periwinkle, went back in to the carriage house, and sopped it up with his bloodshot eyes and callused tired hands, through the balls of his feet he tried to fill the meaning of this space into the gapping whole in his soul. He was a slave to love, no was not a response in his lexicon of words to be spoken to Trulie. He’d finally crossed the line too far. When he reached the top of the stairs he found her sleeping, still bound, still the most beautiful woman he’d ever lay eyes on. He untied her ropes and rolled them into careful coils. Covered her body with a sheet. Packed everything neatly away and straightened the room. He tried to lay next to her to rest, but could not keep his eyes closed. Periwinkle Bubbles, got dressed and walked past his shop, where he would normally stop to work until states like this dissipated, but there had never been a state like this one and he’d lost his will to work. He walked in a sad straight line home, in the early morning light and filtering mist.

When he got there, he remembered he left his keys with Bart, so he had to ring the bell. A strange naked woman answered the door. Captain, it’s some old dude. Dehr rushed to the door, still in her corset and riding boots, but little else. “Mister Bubbles, I was expecting a call to fetch you.” Periwinkle looked at her, then the girl, “Where’s Bart?” “Dehr shrugged, pointed to Bart stripped to his boxers, sleeping, bound and gagged with garden tape to a faux marble column between the living and dining rooms. “You said ‘No wild parties, so I restrained his enthusiasm. Sir.” Periwinkle, stood next to Bartholomew, cleared his and shouted Good Morning Mr. Greenjeans.” Bart bashed his head against the column and knocked himself back out, Periwinkle then turned and greeted the young woman, who was trying to dress. “Good morning Bunny. No need to rush” To Miss Dehr White, “Good morning Captain, please see Mr. Greenjeans and his Bunny Girl to his home” The poor girl tried to correct him with her real name, when Dehr smacked her in the mouth. Periwinkle was gone was not there to see it. He prepared two cups of coffee, lit a clove cigarette, stepped out on to his sun porch, sat down, waited and cried until sleep overwhelmed him.