peevishly
and what a ghoul of
insipid corridors I walked
thru to get here.
did you hear me you flame throwing
nausea of sunburnt sea sick?
I said I walked thru many
corridors and they were insipid
just to get here!
I wonder sometimes if the muse
has a heartache worse than ours/
I wonder sometimes with gold eyes
roving the tops and turves of galactica
I wonder sometimes
where my life went. with the breeze
or the dark water?
What corridor is it passing thru now?
and can the muse please hear my plea?
I wonder sometimes
why God had to die
and why we had to bear witness
to blackened cornfields
and sacrificial murders
on the night before Halloween
I wonder why sometimes.
I fell at her feet yesterday
I looked down from above
upon myself-
and I looked crumpled.
and I asked,
no I pleaded,
and eventually cried,
Why?
why do dark corridors exist
and why are they so often
insipid?
I am through.
I have nothing else to say
when the burning brains the brandyshine
sunlight qwest of querelous
quagmire cop-shops like this,
when the sordid rhyme starts stuffed nothings like this.
I cant quite figure out how to express what
I feel these days.
And I know I am dying painfully
I told her
in these mean insipid corridors
of my mental grails.
Mean corridoria of my mystic mental grails.
Moratorium of gillish trails.
In my diseased red gills.
In my sickly mental grails. Fuck, just stop. Fucking stop.
STOP AND JUST DEAL WITH HIS FUCKING DEATH.
Flashback:
He takes a moment to swish 'is ice around in his fancy glass before he downs his late morning Stolichnaya treat and finishes his little lox filet and half of a pumperknickel bagel. He takes off his glasses and rubs his bloodshot eyes.
"I'm burning the F up out here and don't go getting all crazy assed and mad at me about this."
"I'm not mad about anything..... What the hell did I do?" I ask.
He smiles warmly at me, shaking his head slowly and adjusts his broken watch. "Nothing. Get inside I'll fix us up. But I want you to behave!"
"Oh quit, will you. It's not funny anymore. I'm not a child. I'm 24 years old. And I'm not your patient, Doc."
"Yes, I am quite cognizant of the facts, Miss Kane, and how ignorant of me not to recognize how old 24 really is. In fact, I would suggest you start filing now for social security." And he laughs at me.
His laughter hovers down finally to just chuckles and he makes a snorting noise and mumbles, "Aquarius," sarcastically and rolls his eyes, grinning like the Chesire Cat. I wonder if he's had too much vodka already.
I am helpless to do anything but laugh at his over the top and totally uncalled for brat-ness and outright, blatant attack on my astrological nature! (The topic of my Aquarian nature continues to amuse and tickle him for years, and honestly, I guess I never quite understood the hilariousness of my Aquariusness. But he would laugh out loud about it, literally for years!)
He soon begins to look at me the way he did when I was his patient, smiling, calm, and asks me politely if I'm "OK". I smile warmly back at him. "Yes. Yah, I'm fine, John."
"Good," he says and tilts his head, still making eye contact with me. "Cmon, it's hotter than fucking Hell out here." He looks almost sad. Or...I don't know what exactly. I guess the divorce isn't helping. I want to hold him very close. And we do hold each other eventually but it wasn't on this day, nor this night. But I do remember wanting to hold him so tight and part of me wanting to just live in those arms forever and ever.
We leave the brutally hot August heat and enter the deck slider and I'm wondering to myself if he is "OK". I decide not to ask him anything and just let him do his thing. Afterall, I love him and he's a special friend whose been so very good to me in the 3 years I've known him so far.
The cool dark of the beach house is like a new day, new life. My body feels good and my mind is at ease as we sit at his big table and cool off and talk and laugh for a few minutes. Then it gets strange and exciting and surreal as we do more of the crazy flash card experiments, getting direct and intense psychic hits on nearly every single one for hours. It is truly amazing the psychic connection we have. And he knows it's as bizzarre and fascinating as I do. He thinks of these exercises as practice for our hypnosis sessions we will do later in the evening. After three hours I finally break down and whisper, "No more, no more. I need a damn drink and a cigarette.... please, John!"
He lets his shoulders slump and lets a long sigh escape. He takes off his glasses and stretches. I fix a frisky little pirate juice cocktail and the Good Doctor sticks to the Russian firewater.
Later that Evening after a huge lobster and baked cod and red potatoes and greek salad by white and black candle light, I would place a thorny crown of beach plums, bayberry, red cedar bark, rose hips and hawk feathers (that I had made for him the day before) upon his thick black hair as he grimaced at me and laughed, begging me once again to behave. His shadow behind him made him look like a terrifying daemon, the two hawk feathers were two horns pointing inward, coming up out of his thick black hair and in the dancing candle light his eyes gleamed like light blue glass on fire. It was an image I knew even then, I would never forget and I remember thinking that very thing.
With my rum-drink in hand, a Camel Light in my mouth and my other hand dramatically sweeping up in the air, I ordained him "Smart-Ass John of the North, Ancient Druid King/Medicine Man."
His reply as he trys not to laugh: "You're making me smoke and I don't even smoke!"
"My are you ornery. You want me to go.....?"
"NO! We have more work to do, and I need more details of the first abduction, when you were 8 on the sailboat with your Dad. We need to deal with that, you know if were ever going to get anywhere with this thing. But..." he pauses as he looks in my eyes and seems to know exactly what I want him to say when he declares, "I need a swim first. Enter at your own risk," he adds, trying to freak me out.
But to no avail.
Much to his fake chagrin I just laugh and swipe at him, and follow him out to the dark waves under the starlight and swim the way he does-just like a fish and just as fast.
I often dream of swimming under dark sea water at night- seeing nothing, hearing nothing, knowing nothing except that he's right beside me or below me, or above me- so it's OK.
It's all OK. I know hes there beside me even when I hear nothing, see nothing, know nothing. My Smart-ass Druid King is still here with me, swimming in the dark, always above me or below me or right by my side.
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