Shoulder

Disbelief is a belief essentially; each pervading the existence of nonexistence, let us switch it back around for another misconception.

Must I be a radio dial for excitement? Change the channel for a tune which catches a numb ear for a hum stuck in circumference of empty domes without hair.

"You really liked him did you?"

Should I answer? The lavender man is the woman in my dreams if such consists of memory. I am lost in between the seams; clothes worn hide the image of what might of been.

"Guess that was a no...."

No does not touch the lavender man neither does yes make her undress. Let him keep his reaction; I am lost in my self.

"Brad you know she likes him."

"Cindy I am not sure if she does that is why I asked."

"She does not feel like talking...."

"If she liked him she would."

"Some things better left unsaid isn't that right honey?"

I am vinegar instead.

"Bloody fuck I seriously doubt a god damn answer would appease either of you! Why don't you just tune me to the fucking frequency you fucking choose!"

I am in the house again staring at a computer screen. This man writes of a mad man I desire to meet; if I do I will be surprised. Somebody reads other than me; I wonder if he knows he writes for them.

Another terror of vision I am presumed to be annihilation of other women a lavender man may entertain for a moment.

"Why do you show me this?"

"He might have a good time without you."

"I might be a good time without you."

On the street creme of butter coconut smoothening chocolate bark trees this might be Harlem or maybe just another dream.

Royal purple is a diamond texture puffed bubble goose split middle abdomen, muscle faux fur parka hood on a set of braids boasting the kitty cat with long tail Cleopatra missed her sweet sixteen; jeans hug the walk, pockets without, all booty blow gunning the breeze, thigh to the boots press grapes into a tipsy high on heels, platinum grill fanged of jewels grinning for teeth, who dressed me......

Tribe Called Quest in the room, might of been house music if there was a door; country boy the corner of my cocoa beam, this city is a desert for a big buckle ten gallon hat coming towards me.

"Would you like to dance?"

"If you let me take you out of here I will dance with you later...."

"Where do you want to take me?"

Charm of the meadow trampled by concrete worn down by men without much to compete; I suit him for a look, fade the side of mahogany curls, he looks at me just the way I want him to....

"Who is that boy you with?"

"He's damn fine isn't he?"

"For sure....better show him off before the night is over."

Move for me, move this way, move that way, come closer, closer to me....

"You're doing just fine now give me a kiss...."

Shock never takes him away for another reality; we will be all the excitement the graph needs enthralled by the power of electricity.

I kiss him all over the streets.

We return for a few nights to a hotel room as he kisses me with more precision each practice a learning endurance of excellency.

"There is something different about him...."

"Yes we know."

"I am not attached to him as a person although I do enjoy the imagery."

"Please continue, we want you to see."

Am I bad now or was it she? I suppose I can blame her; I am just a bystander.

Our kiss is the thrill of watching a rollercoaster brink the drop into loops of killer whales engulfing white water bouncing sonar off boats missing the catch of the day; porpoises giggle in mischievous laughter as the seals club the menace a penguin fits himself a tobaggon as rain falls into his plastic haven the spectators watch without a clue.

"Suppose I should be heading back home soon."

"Why is that?"

"That's where I remember things..."

"What things do you remember?"

"Just some things, that's all...."

"Describe these things to me..."

"There is a tree by some muddy water I sit at sometimes when I get to thinking about my life. A car somebody used to drive sits there too. That's really all I can remember about that since I met you. I really can't remember that much since we started kissing."

"What did you think of your life by the tree? What does the place come to mind as your thoughts?"

"I think about time, you know the clock, I think about how it ticks to numbers, how it goes in a circle, how it keeps going on, I think about what I might do about that, I think about driving that car there so I can beat it. Maybe the car can getaway from the clock."

Crying on his shoulder I feel the flesh of a man unlike the rest which does not touch; he felt me there.

"You're not a clock...."

"You are not going to age are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"The clock is going to keep going round, everybody will keep going round, but you will be here just like it stopped."

"Do you think anyone will notice?"

"Not if you don't...."

"I notice...."

"Then you might want to sit by that tree and see that car. You might want to be getting away soon. Not sure where you can go but I'll be waiting for you."

"What do you mean?"

"I got to go soon. See my clock is running too. I am almost out of juice. Got to stop ticking, I am ready, I got everything I wanted."

"What did you want?"

"I wanted to find you."

"Why?"

"So you could stop the clock."

"How did I do that?"

"As soon as I saw you walk into the room"

"Where will you wait for me?"

"By the tree next to the car."

Our kiss is without the lavender man. Our kiss is unsure of defiance yet frozen in time; I cannot admit pleasure of his lips. I admit the pleasure of his shoulder.

This hotel is different than others; I am leaving a location one considers home.

"He's gone now...."

"No he's not entirely gone."

"I miss his shoulder."

"I know...."

"Did the lavender man enjoy his date?"

"She's gone...."

"Not entirely...."

"Do you both always experience the same?"

"We experience the same experience but rarely the same emotion."

"How does that happen?"

"We feel the magnetism of opposite poles; somehow we connect in the center."

"Is that how you understand each other?"

"That is how we belong together."

"Right now you are still on opposite ends."

"I suppose.....where is the rest of the duet?"

"Singing a different song...."

"You are not much different than us."

"Maybe not...."

This house is maddening as I am maddened by the scheme; recollection desires a channel to reach. If not I am eternally lost, I wish not to dramatize the situation more than I am already drama itself; I am muddy water by a tree sitting next to a car without a driver for the getaway.