i'm drunk and my face is puppy-nose wet with tears. it's way up in the a.m.'s and we're sitting here, two red faced animals, angry about being angry about not being angry. this is about a moment. a very precise hot-buzz of a moment that slides sideways into the room where i realize that i have never once hit a man. never in my life have i slapped a man without it being some sort of joke or rehearsed set up, like little kids first kissing. this is not to say there have not been men that didn't deserve it, they did. i still remember. but hand in hand with this inkling, a concept tiptoes along, hinting that just maybe i am hurt and angry enough for exactly that sort of thing and how often do i let anger win? let me tell you, i don't ever. anger lives in the older, atticy part of my brain inside a sleeping bag - those ones that you can zip all the way up. more than that, i know that i could probably slap you right now, if i had the balls to, i could. i decisively want the balls to. i imagine it and replay it, it looks wrinkly and weird in my imagination. right across your face, like in some movie - deliberately - without missing or awkwardly grazing or backing out. this moment then shakes itself off and dissolves into something thicker and much further from me. something is not contained that should be and i no longer have any authority. i try and find it, i grab for the concrete existence of our situation but i feel only a slight air-to-skin-tingle and vast distances. this happens occasionally, perhaps you've found at times, you're not quite sure what it is you might do. i'm watching myself from off on the sides and standing, i see myself want to be someone else, to be somewhere else, to undo some pasts and some knowledges. maybe our emotions get tired of telling us how and when and why and just want us to surprise ourselves.
these emotions steady themselves. there is disorder and sabotage. what should be my body and what should be my mind play a quick and hostile game of hide and seek. the mind conjures things up and then quickly retreats from any notions its created while the body grabs the gun. i've never held a gun. i think of your hands on her. just right across your face. your face, my face, that i hold and adore. i think of the two hands you use to touch me, writing to her about your desire to kiss her lips, or anywhere on her. ergo, we pull the trigger. the smack is authentic and loud and somehow it seems to really be my hand and your face. it pulls me, bottom line. loud objects fall from the sky in our little room that only i can see. the slap is the brass tacks, it is how things are, like it is, a crack in lifes pavement. it echoes in my brain along with your two roomy, brimming brown eyes. the bedroom is so hot. i don't know what i am looking for exactly, is the thing, with this slap, but it happens with a cracking that would confuse a tree twig.
out of any touched or felt reality, time keeps indifferently moving, shrugging its shoulders. the atmosphere has a hangover and i am very thirsty, my heart muddied and walloping. you just sit there looking at me, with your mouth a little open. i measure the guilt with my chest breaths and try to filter them accordingly. you'd be surprised how much a heavy something can be so inexhaustibly nothing. you get up to leave and i am alone, crying harder now, all dowdy and waterlogged. even my ears felt full of water. i watch the muscles in your back move as you walk away and i know things have been changing for some time inside me, i don't have the same power over myself that i used to. i ache to hold that burst and smack, to scream again with poems. i know you and i are both unlike the other. i wipe my nose, nurse my bruisy heart and face like a kitten with its paws. i know that you are a very far cry from ever being any sort of muse for me, any sort of animus. there are no more whims and rumbles. i fall into a deep drug-like sleep, alone.
at 11:18 AM