The cigarette smoke trails lazily past my fingers in forethought, as I partake of its source with sharp punctuations… perched among heated moments that bring Tom Waits, motorbikes and Burma to mind…swigging sweaty bottles through squinted, hangover-stained eyes…all the masculine parts men only speak of in songs & humorous, self-depreciating chuckles…
Thick hand on neck, razor whining, crisply biting past growing, fighting fur… Clear-cuts, crunch by shear, smoothing defined boundaries across sovereign skin.
I wonder if the father thinks of holding the boy as he now holds the man in his hand… protective, ever so subtly-tensed flesh, breaths matching century-old rhythms.
As I exhale my cigarette breath all I can think of is to steal quickly this deep concentrated pool of life, these buzzing, crackling moments & electric seconds, wrestle them down into mere English words, to be devoured by hungry, vicarious eyes… this moment can not be forgotten, the simple moment of cutting hair, a moment of traditional ritual & heartbreaking aesthetic…
Like all Good Memories, It, too will die… the art of framing a memory with words… tacking up Movement & Vitality with verb & noun, Life spooled out of the mind & twisted from it’s original form through a crushed glass lens, contains its own beauty…a numb sense of what might have been if the world derived more satisfaction from itself.
I want men’s memories…their intimate moments…want to curl up in men’s quiet spaces, dreaming with them about all things still-desired & now-spent.
Yearning & regret twisting together like brier roses, crumpled & beautiful, both Dangerous Need & Lonesome Comfort coupled into one bent, withering body, heaving breath into the unknowable, unquenchable abyss…
Sucking the marrow from life’s bones.
Breathing in the thick, heady oxygen of life’s deepest jungles… poison seeping into & from your skin with a tree-frog normalcy that settles into you like a first-nature… born within and from harsher reflections of reality… expected to adapt; As has the cycle spun for centuries without you, it will continue on after you become but a whisper of collective thought in warm spring.
What ultimately happens to a woman like me?
The Mighty Wench, the Keeper of Taverns & Men’s Sanity within the Valley of the Shadow of Death…the Great Lover, the Wild Redheaded Flame, the Problem, the Solution, the Salve after it Ends? There seems to be no rest for my kind, nor Another to ultimately lay a tired head beside in the weary sigh of Age.
As a Woman that contains a mighty inner war, I am skilled in the art of defense & tactic.
I prefer to give my chosen partners the benefit of my doubt & rationality, however it takes a very clever human to override my senses for long & I am consistently disappointed in my choice of males based on their mental & emotional stamina.
My thoughts shift again to the idea of Goddess-led Kingdoms & the days of half-naked Oracles splayed out on sun-baked stones… pouring their poetry on pavement, threading subconscious dreams into stone cracks & thinned brains of those too busy staring at stars to feel the immediate effects…how many of those women have burned?