buzzes like a fridge/

"well maybe if you weren't wearing that red lip-stick it never 
would have happened."
"maybe if you hadn't been born with those hands of yours."
"don't look at me like that."
"like what."
"it's the same way you look at the sky when you get out of the car and slam the door shut - you're up and inside and taken away. just now those eyes look hungry like a mouth would and your hands are your eyes; observers, and your mouth is just, it's all incredible."
"oh, and then you sang. softly and more slow than the original version."
"you spin me right round baby right round."
"yeah and i smiled. 'like a record baby..."
i pictured a red, red room. i pictured all my pasts as various dingy shades of changing greys. i told you this here and now was color and you verbally replied with fervent hands. 
red rooms, please. always with these colors. right round, round round. 
"you're like my personal little fireplace."
"you are like a slow moving electricity buzz, a witch of a man. what do they call that? love, do you miss your river? could i be the sea? right now, this, does that feel like a wave?"
the room smelled like cinnamon and felt like roasting chestnuts. things didn't happen, they were dreamed. maybe god or a stranger or a man moments before his death desperately conjuring warm images of the most light and love he could fathom were dreaming all this up. we belonged to the collective idea of what love could possibly be, if it exists. there was a slow pattern of a  tactical series of moments that were in control instead of you or i or us."
"put your fingertips on my shoulders, sweet potato."
i never ever needed to say yes. 
"i think they're warlocks."
"male witches, in christianity, they're warlocks."
"no, no that sounds wrong. you're a healer, a mystery."
"i am not the mystery here."
you crawl on top of me, your eyes still seekers.
"i said don't look at me like that."
you stay right there, comely and persistent. 
"okay" i say, but don't, i just surf without words. on a spin-drift collision course, in circles, everywhere, everything.
later on i look for the meaning of warlock. it is apparently a deragatory term for witches. it means "traitor," "deceptive."  a male witch is just that, a male witch, a sorcerer of sorts. when i come back to bed you are asleep on your side, knees up and child-like. i am consumed.
i sleep without dreaming. 


it's been fifteen minutes. 
a slow and concentrated fifteen minutes.
there he is, he is the one, right over there. he is sitting casually, his hat pulled down over his eyes, which i still have not seen. the hat just barely covers his whole nose, the tip jutting out like a rock on a seashore. his small daughter runs around his feet with a giant bag of cheese doodles. this he ignores. he loosely wears a pair of white-paint-splattered, ripped up and softly faded jeans. when i say he wears them, i really mean it - he's defining the word "worn" sitting there in those jeans. they know him well. his t-shirt is faded also, everything about him pretty faded, personally historical. he tips his hat up and squints at the sun and yes, okay, there are his eyes. both are the color of tree bark, wrinkles hug the outsides of them lovingly. i imagine his home life is a bit like those reality television shows, the kind on channels people flip right by, or else watch distractedly, gaping mouths half open. he's scrappy and disheveled, his beard looking somewhat thrown on. he's the sort of gentleman you just know smokes cigarettes. a lot of cigarettes. his fingernails and knuckles are railroad-track dirty, which is endearing, i think of guitar players and dirt roads.  underneath his hat is a sweaty bandana, this is a man that sweats. today is saturday. i'm sitting in a car in front of the laundromat, the outside of which is lined with 70's-furniture-yellow-colored chairs where he temporarily resides. i can just barely hear him from my car, his voice a bear-growl. he strongly suggests the promise of an "ass-whoopin'" to his daughter who responds by lowering her head the tiniest bit.sitting on the chair he leans almost over himself, as if he's going to tell someone a secret, his boots perhaps; which are big and black, respectively.  as i pompously assumed he might, he takes out a pack of cigarettes and examines the inside for a moment, choosing one with a careful confidence. he lights it like a cowboy, shielding the wind with his wedding-ring-less hand. we look at each other for a moment. he seems nervous, anxious about something, i think, as he takes his drags, seemingly more in thought now that he's inhaling and exhaling plumes of grey smoke. some monumental things have happened to this man. some monumental things happen to everyone. i want to tell him that it's very possible that everything is or will eventually be very okay but i know i can't, for too many reasons to even begin to think about. 
"shit," he says and puts his smoke out on the bottom of his boot. he takes his daughters cheese-doodled fingers in his big hand and leads her to their off-red toyota camry. i smile right before they get in and he grins back at me toothily.


the mud has involuntarily converted to velvety-soft brown water.
it is streaming like a slow dance down the road in lines. you are far from me and it stings. each ripple that laps up is its own unit, they look very much like tongues making out with the gravel, there's licking and petting and love so obvious it sings. you -  you won't be here for a very long time. years even. three men with black umbrellas are crowding around the house discussing something of obvious importance ignoring the tiny rippling phenomenon. out of every street scene anywhere, i'm here and i stand and look after the water like a parent watching their kid on a carousel.  i miss you. what i miss out of everything is you. i wonder what you're wearing. i want our hands to do things. and why the matching black umbrellas? why here? "if we don't do it now, we're done for" one man says. the freckles on my face have turned on, bright, like someone hit their light switch on. you are somewhere moving your body and probably that mouth, too, making sounds and breathing in that specific way that you breathe and everything that you are wearing is lucky because it enfolds and sips you, because i'm not made of cloth but one can dream, i think. or that is what they say. everything about you is both wholly familiar and yet still strange, together exhaustively so, at the same exact time, you oxymoron. my cell phone rings.  if we don't do it now, we're done for.