— Here I am!
Here I am!
They always made me laugh even though I knew they were teasing me.
— Who?
— My mother and Brascho:
— Where is Pinkie?
Where is Pinkie?
— Here I am!
Here I am!
Telling me where to stick my finger when I didn’t feel like playing. Controlling my moods. And you handing me my own pooh as if it were a bonbon. I had to laugh, I couldn’t help it. It was as visceral as the meltdown. And that’s exactly what I love about you, the rash and unexpected, distracting me from myself. I’m going to take him. I need him badly.
— What an annoying baby. All he does is piss and cry.
— But I need him in a different way. He reminds me of the piglet that Alice in Wonderland carries in her arms. She thinks it’s a baby. With a snout. That for me is my Rocamadour. I have to steal him from Hopscotch. He’s mine. Mine.
— He’s dead.
— Doesn’t matter. He’s mine. An offering to my altar of writers. I’m going to take Dulcinea in my arms, and you, Rocamadour.
— A piglet and a dog. Both dead.
— No, alive, alive in memory. In the fire of live illusions.
Rock-a-bye baby
On the tree top,
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock.
I feel the wind swaying me away, away, away. My head is blowing, growing — on the verge of exploding. I feel happy — so, so very happy. I hear my friends laughing. Inspiring the wind, I inspire myself. I want to inspire myself. Hang in there. Let me see. What else can I do?
Give me an orgasm that runs through my channels and makes me a fountain, a sunset, a wave, a tunnel, a bridge, and a cow.
Mooooooo.
Give me an organism that plays my blacks and whites, quavers, and even the tacks and nails I un-nail — don’t they sound like the root of…I mean, every wonder has a name, even when I wonder my name. What else? Ah. What.
It all depends on how the intonation, even the excitement. How can I inspire you? How can you — mooooo — inspire me? Nothing can be inside the heaven — bola suave — master — masturbation — I write it — how else — I sing bo-o-la — kneading a ball of dough, a bun, a canteen in the nest egg of the nightingale — a common denominator — flowing around — going around nonstop — stunned speechless — the Milkmaid of Bordeaux — after the Black Paintings
down
down
down
I feel an up
merry-go-round
you drive me crazy
do-re-mi-fa-ti-do
you love me like I love you,
myself is you, my you is me, yo
my yo is myself, you my Yo-Yo Boing!
I hit the mountain of your sex,
rubbed it against mine — rubbing around—
mounting heavily — double-di-lu-lu-bu-ru
and I understood, disturbed, but pleased,
rest in peace, mine be, god be, the heavens, mountain it — mounting in it, it comes around — again — I know who it is. It’s him. The meow, meow, meow sounds the same as his meow, meow, meow. I know him, do I love him, I don’t know. He makes me be my happy, be myself, makes me feel do-re
mi-fa-so-la-ti-do
nonstop — double double du
bon-bon
face-to-face
with immortality
the white bunny spot
of the wooly lamb
between the mounds
of my sex wet
enticing delighting exciting me
and all the red, flushed with a touch
so touched in the red rock, blushed
red and white notes and the quaver
stained in black ink
in the red, touched in the middle
traced by the thumb
the pinkie in front
if it feels it in front
zappa — plsssfsht
and I stay with you
because I can’t feel
what I feel with you
when I have it without you
I feel less myself
with you
I myself
alone
for you
darumbamba
darumbamba
bum
plum
uum
Did you get it all down?
— I missed a few points.
— So what would happen if I go blind?
— If you go blind, then it’s over, baby, all over.
— Why, ah, why. If Milton wrote when he was blind. And Borges wrote. And they say Homer was blind. It’s memory, not sight that matters. As long as I have you to transcribe my inspiration.
— The wind blew too fast.
— How is it that I can capture the wind?
— Then why didn’t you write it down?
— You have to practice. You weren’t even close to what I said.
— I was editing your repetition, your mispronunciation.
— You have no right to transform my words, especially when I am dictating what I’m hearing from the blind. Just write every word I say. That’s kairós. That’s what I do. I’m just repeating what I hear. What authority do I have? None. Whatsoever. And now that I have you, less. Now I can lie down like the dead and wait ’til you make the writing work. The misspellings and the nuances, after all, what do I care, I see in them your future trademarks. You are going to be, by all means, an original.
— Don’t steal my thunder — Mona warned. But I had already taken her phrase:
arrested
arrested
libido
and made it mine. She had explained that arrested meant delayed, retarded, but I thought arrested, like confined, imprisoned, like halt, you’re under arrest. She tossed and turned all night, worried that I had stolen her thunder, and literally I had. I stole her thunder and her arrested libido.
— And think of all the stories you swiped from me.
— Why should I have to defend my thunder? Ask Dalí how many thunders he stole from Lorca and Buñuel from Dalí and Lorca. And Picasso from we don’t even know how many, he himself a thunder thought no credits were to be given to nobody. He himself his own thunder became a creditor with so many debts. And here you are telling me stories, knowing that I’m going to swipe them.
— Stop picking your toes.
— There is plenty of cloth to be cut. If it starts bleeding and makes a hole like a, like a, like a cave, it excites me even more. Go on.
— Let me tell you about what happened to a young man who married a very wild, unruly wife. Everybody, including her own father, begs him not to marry her. At the wedding, they pray for the poor sap’s life.
— He’s a lazy gold digger. She’ll bury him alive.
On the wedding night, hubby asks his dog for a glass of water.