Civil Twilight - LGW
Walking the 2.4 kms to Petticoat Creek to sit under Civil Twilight.
The ocean is swollen and vexed, suggesting a language too long in the tooth for my sensibilities,
tired, a ragdoll in its teeth, it pulls my hair like my big sister, prostrate again.
The mean one.
I ride bareback on the waves, I cant tame something i made wild, reverse cowgirl.
Pleather bikini, permed rollers, covered in sandy scabs, under a blue moon, vibrating with lunacy, lunar new moon.
Shedding scabby skin to be someone who is simple enough to think that there is nothing bigger than herself.
1. The ocean is always your first warning. (I am cold now, but i cant help but believe, after now she has tossed me around, and swelled up beside me, bursting with the sugar smirk that the ants fed her)
2. The earth is a tiny snow globe for ants, but the ants are hateful with a sugar smirk
3. Sand in every crevice, I am caressed by crystal.
How to dream the boy out of you:
Steps 1, 2, 3 & 4:
I first had to make him a shell in my mind, I imagined him shiny and precious, I imagined taking him up from the sand and putting him in a ballerina box at home.
Then I had to make him a man in my mind, imagine him grownup and away from me, imagine him smarter than he is and much stronger. Imagine him chopping wood for a good fun-sized wife.
Then I made him the crab that fought me for the shiny shell, then a slug that sat in the rock pools the crab made a home in.
I imagined this metamorphosis three times over and then I made him just a boy again, I did it all just to dream the boy out of me.
In Exchange for half a dozen phone calls I gave the man, the boy:
- One camp chair
- 38 bottles of cider
- an aluminum table
- my hands for a second
and a small sample of urine.
Now I could pound on the chest of the beast, unletting, hands red raw, I could stomp around in vinyl boots, taunting sweaty men in vacant lots, whose jobs remain ambiguous, but time is spent watching the construction and destruction of building sites through blue plastic sheets and barbed fencing.
I could cover myself completely in latex and get a tail and be a horse in a kind of offbeat ritual, a sex act.
But every morning she will bloat herself more cosmically than the last, and like putty in her clasp, she will pluck me up and place me down on bruised knees, soaking wet, spit dipping down my best ear, a mouthful of her water to whisper.
.NEF)
Spittler,
SPIT A LITTLE ON HER.
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