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A woman's hypnotic hold over her man. |
My Svengali, You. 11/20/1981 Slumbering heavily, sunken in a sofa bed, as deep November light filters through dirty windows, staining all, misty gray, overcast, suggesting cold dampness. Objects swim in steel blue colors, that coat everything in this apartment, giving it the appeal of a sitting room for corpses. Fragmented dream sequences sift and pass through a subconscious, being projected on close eyelids, a movie watched by a sleeper, whose cougar eyes pace back and forth, like caged animals, tracking the images. His employer, Shirley, seated opposite, on the living room appendage, a corduroy couch, named the Green monster, chats away, while vague, shadowy women in sheer, flimsy summer dresses flit, floating about the room. He is chided for not returning that afternoon to work, a hangover the reason for afternoon's coma. A guilt dream, surely. Wittingly, he maneuvers the topic to his desire for a good, long lay. She musically trills a laugh, leaning back, opening her legs under the dress, waiting.... Shift... Swirl... grey turbulence, misty passing... Until solidity- a small refreshment stand, in front of a row of rundown stores, all cracked cement, a sign advertises, 'Angelo's' in black tarnished metal, like lecherous, old man sins on a street corner. Women stroll along green, mold stained sidewalks, moving gracefully by, chiseled from multicolored stone, designer made women cold, hard and aloof. Young and clean-shaven, he stands, facing Angelo's, his best fox catching visage on- a look he carries in a back pocket, next to his warm, pulsating butt cheek. One small, brown curled Italian woman, a Rita, but no - a Denise, spies him and moves out from the throng of flowing masterpieces. She lithly slithers up, all breasts and perfume. Their leers broadening, eyes eating each other up, like magnets thick with electric juice. A song reverberating through one frame to another, it draws floating beauty to him, shaking in his long-awaited, ancient anticipation. But just then... sllliiiith - clunk! loudly, a letter in the door, and the sleeper awakes! Boots pass quickly at eye level, outside this basement apartment, along the pavement above, as I struggle to come out of the thick, sexual swamp that was dream-state. Climbing from the palm of my bed, I greet the death grip of November late afternoon light and wince. Moving in the dim reality of funeral home stage presence, I bend to pick up the envelope between door and wall. Scribble on the front beckons, "please open me!" Then a column in hieroglyphic semantics, 'fill feel Phil' immediate recognition of a script long yearned for, Nancy. Breaths of cool air blow through this prison, a cave dripping with stalactites of loneliness. Reading, warmth spreads from my stomach upward, filling me. I so miss you Hoodzie. A plan to distance myself over a recent relapse, crumbling in my hands, as the paper trembles in my fingers. A "sail on silver girl, don't let me hold you back" type of plan, now melting. But we are a poisonous fountain of youth, yet how you set me soaring! These periods of separation, I get to examine, by way of dismantling the intricate mechanism of our love and study its fine and perfectly minute clockwork tickings. Slowing time, immersed in the depths of our poems and letters, letting their veneer rollover me, syrup-like and sweet. It's only physical distance, for by these contemplations are the fires of our fantasy fed, nourished and strengthened. A jewel I turn in hand admiring each facet in some new, bright light that comes by days longer from your side. Sifting through memories, like some gold-digger in a riverbed with his pan, I find.... ... that Halloween night, coming home from a dance in Philly and me - the death's head, you - the womanhood warrior, leaning over - you lay your head on my chest and I, stroking your hair stroking your hair, stroking your hair. ...nugget here, nugget there, this panhandler always seems to strike the mother lode. But now I feel your riptide pull and draw, compelling me, such a hypnotist, and I - a victim willingly. My lovely Svengali, pinging the depths for me, your sonar calling out across this cold and singular night. I arise, in trance, from lone November mists and walk... shift, swirl, snap to... a pay phone, pitching in winter's wind, attesting to futures of snow in a lifetime of failure, I drop a dime, and echo back, "Hello, it's Phil, how are you, babykakes?!" The End |