Mozarts and Bowies

In a vision of my life are these things:

A plastic pumpkin and an angel made from a green tie. Tom's Lavender Deodorant and a wind chime in the shape of a fish. A copy of J. G. Ballard's Crash and two tall chairs from IKEA. A book of art and Snoopy playing a piano.

* * *

Oh heavens, am I going to turn maudlin?

It turns out that you were not a Caravaggio revelation but simply a poorly bred creature of the Southeast.

I think it's charming that old people still chase tail.

(It is a prose-poem.)

* * *

Turns out there is nothing but a moment on Geary Boulevard. I could die a thousand times, drown in my own million tears, when it comes to a song about birds and a dozen stage effects. Were you seated next to me? Did I touch you? What understanding of life did we have? For once there was something more beautiful than we were.

I am maudlin. I am Starbucks and the favorite tree. I am the place of a future impossibility: the tautly wrapped blond, so lean and vain, so sad and drunk, who took my hand and threw up on my carpet . . . That creator of double life, that depressive of midrange genetics (like my own), not so nearsighted as to miss the stars but oh! so mediocre (like myself) . . . Still, a remarkable arrangement of atoms, if a little Christian (which is to say superstitious), ah but -- Irish moles! Ah, what bliss! Pale shall mate with pale and sonnenschwach producieren.

* * *

But I am not talking about that travesty, but something darker, something forgivable, something invisible, impalpable -- no, immensely palpable. Something cool with incredible feet -- something poorer than Oliver who lives in the comfort of Kings: silks and linens and heretofore-uninvented luxuries of down and duck liver: He, the bizarre gravity of my infatuation. That brief millisecond on the magical cloud: steps which I boasted to a friend, and windows that became the foci of my communion with the divine.

How did I leave Valhalla? (Oh but pictures -- pictures I still have!) I was a self-doubting Warrior. I suppose I grew to expect true deification. I suppose I feared that any old blacksmith would choose his weapons over my sad gray flesh.

* * *

Louder, louder, and then I will soon forget! The Beethovens of yesteryear are the sexdaddies of today. What is it I want with you? To be hooked breast to breast and stretched to the utmost pain? Or simply to be broken and entered?

Are you in some kind of studio, singing into some kind of device? Or are you right here, in my kitchen-cum-bathroom-cum-bedroom? Perhaps you, age 62, are brushing your recessed incisors at my sink? I have seen you at seventeen and (in my dreams) have heard you toot Bach.

* * *

I shake with -- cold, perhaps? Also, I may be inspired by the seed which -- which -- grows on the eastern incline of Mount Esherthione, which some know as the Rise of Polluniony. It may be that I am in the third day of ekstasis, that I have spent already two days with Ureiliana, goddess of misknowledge, inspiritator of the wisdom of Nuu.

For surely I sent to the tall oily blondhead the knowledge of symmmmetry. For surely his lean-pantsed and intelligented genetique needed a bit of inspiration other than the birds -- and his oddly sexed consort.

* * *

There is such thing as excess. Even a local hero knows. Even a geographic aberration knows. Even one of a hundred thousand puppies knows.

Oh you fuckers! I am two generations too late to dance with your mutton chops!

Curling. Curling up and dying.

What are you doing now, Bobby? Once you danced. Did you grow up to be a antipoliticiast? Did you grow up to be a solid gold sexer?

I will hide in my own cryogenesis. The future to which I awake will be inhabited by Mozarts and Bowies.