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Texas Coast
by anah childes
ove freely there is nothing to be feared of"—we know this assuredly—air is here—and so blessedly free.
On my journey i boycotted the convenience stores that charged a whopping .50 for air. My skinny tires of my racehorse bike—deserved the 10 psi of air they needed for free.
i cycled onward until i could solicit air without paying .50.
—two things the universe owes me—"air and ice."
Some pudgy "mexcan" thing in po-dunk town on the Texas coast—where the heat hung like heavy shower curtains over a steam bath—chased me out the "store door"—screaming "thief, thief!".i had pilfered two water bottles of ice—and rested on their indoor benches—reading some GQ article about a high class young woman—with manicured toes and toe rings. She did not allow men to call her feminine cache a pussy—but excuse me—" a fine kitty".
i will follow her lead.
"—don't you f-cking call any female part of me a pussy." —i've got a "fine kitty" that feels like red hair —(whatever that feels like). i was told this—during love-making once. it stopped my thinking short—"feels like red hair"? (say slow with emphasis) i laughed heartily on that and then climaxed...
so the universe needs to see my humble little existence? —existence is abundant —it is self-perpetuating—growing and never decreasing—extending itself in little recesses...
"one sweet world and in her breath i am swimming and i will rest here."
do you know dave matthews? i am sure he has food stocked full in his
refrigerator and in his pantry—and there would be pine nuts and dried
cranberries to sprinkle liberally on endive and spinach.
yes, yes—and carlos santana sees the virgin of Guadeloupe—and you know the gall of that apparition woman to tell him "i am proud of you, my son". i am convinced most of the world are crisis vultures.
—do you realize how little encouragement is arranged in neat sequences around park benches? —or on grocery store aisle shelves? me, personally? —i would dole it out liberally to the man standing below me as i arranged the shampoos—"good day and peace to you". father bless me for i have blessed you.i looked in the mirror today and f-cked g-d—threw the finger flat into his waiting face. "f-ck you!"
i am angry and i am angry the william f-cking kennedy f-cking toole wrote that book—a confederacy of dunces and won the pulitzer prize and at the ripe age of 32 offs himself—offs himself—his fridgerator i am sure owned spices and cream for coffee —damn him!
some little—pretty gal complained about a dollar tip in my presence. she don't know what it is like to scour old boxes for pennies—when you ain't got a cent and don't know where a f-cking cent is coming from—a dollar is eggs and a dollar is meal for two days.
i hate this propensity for excellence and then damn—it is the lost in the mind that feels rich—not the found in the masses that offers grace.
i just want to be read—read and read—and read—and this little patchouli house to be my office of residence—and people throw away dollars and dollars on litter box liners—that do the work for you—and i can't find any left over cents in any box or purse or coat pocket—and when it comes down to it no one f-cking gives a damn.
henry miller says to some formation of bum on the street—perhaps the same bum that hit me on the last date i owned.
whisked away to the Houston opera like cinderella—borrowed dress and shoes. —and afterward cruising the black night, a bum knocks on our intertwined arms for change for whatever change would go for on a man like that—miller reminds me—reminds my pious date—a jewish messiah with no hair and an ear ring "one has to be grateful for a canadian dime—or a stale crust of bread. grateful that when it comes your time to be hooked, you can say—and mean it with all your heart! "here take this! do what you like with it!" and so saying empty your pockets. so saying you walk home in the rain, you go without a meal. it's easy to empty your pockets when you see your other self standing there like a dog, begging whimpering, cringing. it's easy to go without a meal when you know you can have one for the asking. Or that tomorrow's another day. nothing to it."
but this all belongs in the world of the bum who perhaps deserves the loss of necessity for he didn't live up to some societal right way to do things. "that's right—certainly—you are in poverty because you f-cking ain't good enough!"
damn—i guess if i were looking in on me—i would say "yeah, she is g-d damn crazy" living so like nietzsche "merely for her circe and art".
and the f-cking craziest form of it all—the farther i fall into some sort of complete brilliance of art and flop of words that stand thigh-high thick inside my head—waiting their specific turn to flow out of my fingers—onto waiting white pseudo computer paper—the more i produce—the more it comes really real—and i am dumb—silent the divined shut up.
i keep thinking about sweet moments—of love fresh paint on the inner soul when the fumes of love penetrated like phallic forms in waiting crevices.
do you even remember the moment of climax—or of satiation?
cross yourself—with blessing
share it liberally on the waiting
upturned faces
for even the ones we want to say significantly
"they are evil"
deserve the love
deserve the shelter of air
of ice on hot skin
of blankets on cold nights
of words on blank paper that validate the singular of a soul.
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