Act 17

He seemeth to be a setter forth of strange gods

~ Acts 17:18 (KJV)

I.

Act 17 of a battered life, bestrewn with emotional destruction, an emulation of certain 'greats' notwithstanding an unpleasant vapor exudes from the fabric of my spiritual clothing ... a fine and dandy cloth clothing the self ... torment of the closet ... the space in which the PROSOPON is donned for the sake of those (the royal) we seek to impress (pun intended) ...

Presumptuous ties to another life whisking itself away beneath our tobacco-infused nose ... Streets opening onto a promise long ago drained of significance.

The school at night, a hall, a lack of responsibility and there it was: rip it out, tear it out, take it easy ... There's more where that came from. Brown hair encasing me, there was infinity ... No one expected that morning would bring a hung-over breakfast ...

Rumpled clothing is sexy on a goddess ... Talk of Burgess and the Malayan trilogy ... My eggs came late ... she did not ... Exasperated by the beauty of early morning with momentous appeal ... We danced in the rain on the way home, just to enjoy something ...

I worried about my silk polo, but she did not ... and it went ...

To be placed in an arena of conflict, lovingly, bestrewn with roses on a silk-sheeted bed, rising to the occasion with words taken from several poets and being told 'speak in your own words' and then trying, failing, getting a smile, an embrace and more ... No calloused indifference to personality ...

Speaking in nadsat after reading A Clockwork Orange together ... Not the most romantic of texts, but undeniable evidence of her uniqueness:

JENNIFER

My world, my life, my love ... so long ago ...

A little Edward there might have been. That is over. Hope has departed these lands.

II.

"April is the cruelest month" ... Thus spake Eliot. Sure, it rained a lot. Down went my ship, and with it the hope of renewal, revision, visionary sharing ...

... how lovely to the eyes, lively to the mind. To [the] fruit she reached; ate, gave to her man, there with her, and he ate.

Things have been shared with me: nothing of importance. DEBORAH. Blastings of mouth and muscular ripplings of legs (she ran a lot) ... MARILYNN. Tired requests for massages, 'Did you bring in the mail?' ...

Meanwhile, as the 4th Brandenburgh Concerto played, I donned heavy gloves and saved a poor bat, trapped in our country home ...

III.

Yes, I am a saint ... a saint who drinks, fucks, intimidates the weak, uses big words against the strong -- and thrives.

I linked myself with a pretty little sublunary deity simply because of her boppy blonde curls and efflorescent blue eyes (and slinky body) ... Oh! to my detriment ... LISA.

And I wonder why She (the authentic, autarchic SHE) doesn't love me ...

Who would? I am a draconic riled up purposeless mess of a man seeking nothing but no gainsaying of my proclivities ...

BARBARA. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of loneliness. I remain, however, seeking a hand in mine ... But,

What good woman would give me that?