Central Park
©1993, by Jeff Glovsky
(Original or Working Title: Half-Baked Erotic Symphony)
I
Amsterdam Avenue, holy midnight…Walking fast. Alone…
Alright.
Grey sky and spirits seeping as she tells me it’s “forever”. Again and over, over pounds the Lie, confounds, astounding she could look me in the eye…the face. The mouth. The cock. “I want to have your babies!“
Fuck.
Dark in each and every way; head resounding with The Lie, full heart and stomach sick and dead…No, don’t believe. Not ever…No!
Completely free up Amsterdam, in holy midnight sleep sex hour.
II
And if I never work again? A day in my short Life? Why, what if no one ever calls, I never get another gig ...
I'd perish? Almost certainly. I lack the skills for too much else. I lack the skills for what I'm doing! Doing though, though poorly: mixing sound and bumbling over low-tech audio equipment. What if someone finally catches on? I run out of breaks ... that is to say, the inbred music / theater world grows weary of my bumbling? Already owe Pat, my clueless landlady, some three thousand dollars in high-piled back rent ... But she's my age though, Pat is. Way over her head. Loads of fun at a party, but wanting in business. She therefore will lap up no quarter from me!
And the rest of her tenants ... not one here respects her.
Of this Pat's aware, no doubt suffers it daily. Explains why she's soused off her ass half the time! Willing to ignore a couple thousand here and there. In any case, her pickled, wet fists make me sweat ...
III
Just tapering off ... Ever out of ideas. Like a greaselog, hot suet, thoughts drain here ... Words flow.
Though not a single intriguing, cohesive thought. No doctrine, no epic, no treatise on Language. No single -- not one! -- valid page of no novel ... no article, story, play, haiku ... no nothing.
I will write every day for fourteen hours! Teach myself an ancient tongue; I will scour museums and cultural bastions, haunting for artwork to turn me on ... I will read open-minded the tomes of all time: the Greatest Stories ever told will be mine to suck down, deep-swallow, fellate whole ... Endure? No! Some sad schoolboy's term!
But INHALE ... words and thoughts apace, ideas and concepts flowingly ... They will glow my soul, these Lights, and I will shine on through them. I will bow to every God -- each one! Each god of Sex and Suffering ... and learn. For like Pilon in Steinbeck, I love beauty, I'm a mystic, I am a Sartrian Self-Taught Man ...
A homeless guy takes out his thing and starts peeing.
| the best friend(s)Oh...Now Justin's getting married. Oh. "You're gonna be best man," he asks, "right?" when he calls and I puncture his crap with non-noise. Until, "Sure ... Sure of course! You just caught me off-guard ..." And then piece by piece, strangely, his story unfolds ... Well, it's best to go back to the very beginning - Justin's roommate, the ubiquitous Phil DeSanto, drove vans for this kosher delicatessen. Once, while purveying fine meats in the Village, Phil'd blindly thrown open his driver's side door, only to see it then nearly lopped off by young Justin ... all harrowing, break-neck ten-speed! Now when that airborne ten-speed landed splat before Phil's bumper, well ... a talismanic bond was born. So much of one, if fact, that why, while laying up sprained in the hospital after -- beds reclined adjacently and chuckling at each other's deadpans -- so famously did the two get on, that vows were made to keep in touchand do it all again some day ... sans back and shoulder wounds, of course. And each with private rooms this time. So they converted a small space on west 19th Street -- by hanging some bath towels down from the ceiling -- this hip little "one-bedroom" bachelor's affair ... and began sharing lease come the following year. |
IV
Oh and look, now comes Kasparov. Speaking of chess ... Slaps down his small board at a table before him; sets it precisely ... Inviting a challenge! I'll give him the best of the doubt this one time: assume he just might be expectant of someone, and not just the cry for attention he's begging ... nor fat lip and black eye that I plan to give him!
Perhaps I'll skulk over and steal his rook ...
"You look bored," someone tells me.
"I'm bored!" cries another.
But if we could just see how pathetic we all look! Allow for one moment a sprinkling of Truth ... We might gaze in the mirror without aardvark poses, or ugly pretends calling up '40s film stars; might stand there and stare, stripped and facially naked ... Just might be amazed at how beautiful ... I would!
It's What'll I be? though. Me looking this way ... Should I just play aloof? And How 'deep' should I sound? ...
We forge ourselves to support our reflections! A head flip, an eye roll, a wet look, my good side ... We fix ourselves before the glass, but inside we stay broken. In the Middle Ages, so I hear, we joked about our codpieces ... Amidst the stench of hens and goats, and plague-ripe, ancient notions, we impressed no one, but dug ourselves ...
But Kasparov is winning!
|
It was long on the road, after all, and we, hot ... and it was too long, too, this tour. And Kelli allowed me to watch MTV ... and with Kelli, it seemed like I might give a shit ... So we fucked and sucked and sightsaw, us ... We, traveling, humping, hoping, living, breathing, doing, BEING! 'cross this lonely wasteland map of ours; this sad expanse of feathered dream and bitter, shattered promises marines and good ol' boys call Home ... |
all writing on this page is original
WordSpeak. Excerpts from
