Note: please read the first part go here: https://www.reddit.com/r/KeepWriting/comments/wu130x/the_gold_dealer_part_1/
and read The Gold Dealer Part 2(a)
Warning: Part 2 has some crasse descriptions of crude graphic sex. Do not read if that offends you.
Do not read if you expect any happiness or hope except perhaps the occasional mocking chuckle at the author.
Ideas taken from other sources are noted, however you have to fix the links to see them. See The Gold Dealer part I for credit to the original Gold Dealer video. I obscured the links so the images don’t show up in my post.
All writing is fictional and may or may not be related to any actual people or events in real life. The real part is subjective, though - sometimes real is ill-defined and the opposite of what you think.
The music got louder and louder and with lights and I'm dancing to “Tuyo Y Mío” in a bright beachside open air bar, and twirling and sweating and she danced against me. I could feel her body move with the beat, and we were good, at least we felt good. I smiled and looked at her dark eyes reflecting the light so quick. We must have taken lessons or something but the music was so loud and the lights and heat and the sweat and movement and I looked across at her shining face and dark eyes looking at me and I could feel her hand and her other hand on my back.
The next song came on and we rose up into the air, weightless, effortlessly, and I held her hand and we spun around and around above the crowd up above the building, above the beach in the sunlight.
I pulled her tight against me and felt her dark hair over my face and my lips were on the side of her neck and suddenly a place of light, and we were lying on a blanket in a most perfect place, with blue sky with a few white cumulus clouds, overlooking an azure sea, white buildings along the coast, but we lay in a beautiful garden, maybe a vineyard, maybe an olive grove, maybe the gardens in a private estate, it didn’t matter, all dappled sunlight creating patterns through a pink bougainvillea trellis, private and peaceful on a blanket. I could hear the sound of a gentle waterfall nearby and I opened my eyes and looked at her face in the sunlight and my heart lept, she was even more beautiful than I imagined. And she could suddenly see herself through my eyes, which made me feel light.
As we ate from a picnic basket, a squirrel kept peeking out from behind the trellis, and I watched her pull a piece of bread from her sandwich and toss bits of bread and some dried fruit and nuts towards it and as she fed the squirrel it relaxed. Darting in, looking at us, her delicate white hand gently offered it snacks and it ate from her fingers. The whole time I watched her face, her cloudy look of concern as the squirrel ran back and the joy and radiance as it came closer. Her laughter as it took a piece of dried apricot from her fingers. She looked at me and stood and pulled me up by the hand laughing and as I stood up straight, my strength returned, I felt good, confident and strong and I pulled her into my arms and could feel her body against me, her heart close to mine, and we drank from the fountain, clear cold water, and we walked in the garden together, and I heard the beautiful songbird, the chaffinch, which were landing on the pink bougainvillea flowered trellis and singing. The chaffinches sang from the trellis.
When I woke up, I heard the freeway and I clutched my phone, and the screen hadn't turned off, but I kept hitting refresh, refresh, refresh and it cast a bluish light in the room and there was a message I was about to send, but I hadn’t sent it because I had fallen asleep for a moment, and I heard the sound of the freeway and I didn't want to remember the dream but I did. Then I noticed the new message, and the single black heart appeared. She must have sent it after I had fallen asleep. She stays awake all the time, I have no idea, or she sleeps when I don’t or or halfway around the world or odd hours but I don’t question something that is beyond me. I should have taken melatonin tonight but my bottle was empty.
Go on, the gold dealer said. And her voice sounded like a wind blowing gently through quaking aspen trees.
The window of fate closes so quickly. During the black swan event I crushed it. One stock. Not knowing that a five sigma move during a six week period in March, in an old boring risk-off stock happens only once in a lifetime. Insane. But I actually hit it perfectly. Started small, maybe $1,000. It turned into $3,000 - in four hours! A rush. Then more. More risk. Massive volatility, 5% swings both up and down in a single day! Each day I played and won and kept winning, $10,000 one day and $20,000 the next. Lose $15,000 but make it back the next day, and more. By the end of the month I had increased my account ten times, almost four times my annual salary. Four times my salary is 40 years of savings. FORTY YEARS of savings in six weeks. Do you have any idea what that does to you? I can ordinarily save maybe a thousand a month if I’m lucky, and over a year ten thousand is a good year. But then my stock swung 15% in one day and I made $52,467 in the last hour of trading, the power hour when it reversed violently, with VIX maxed at 112 - a 10 year high! But I didn’t understand it - all I knew is I was making money, free money, staring at the screen from 6:30 am, multiple straddles each day, until the close at one pm. I pulled thousands of dollars out in cash, piles of it at a time, as much as they would let me take. And the world shut down in a collective psychosis but I didn’t care because I had cash to spare and started giving $100 bills to the homeless guys and I was buying premium cans of Pliny the Younger from a table out in front of a closed down bar for $14 each and driving home watching the worried mask wearing zombies alone in their cars, with fearful hating eyes looking at my unmasked smiling face. Surreal. I bought new iPads and clothes and a new paddle board and paid my bills ahead six months and bought a freezer full of meat, a generator, a water barrel and a nice four thousand dollar shotgun in case the mob came to shake me down for meat. I should have bought my Porsche then but I didn’t. One more trade and I will have a heavy enough marble block - one more trade and I will be in the sun.
But the professionals won in the end and that’s how they keep their Lamborghinis in Miami so clean. A long time ago. Now it’s gone. Everything and more and I have debts that I cannot pay. It’s gone now, everything is gone. She can’t save me and won’t wait any longer. She shouldn’t.
My accountant Javier called yesterday and asked me in his stuttering, serious voice, and I could picture the brilliant mural behind his desk of the white Mexican villa with the terra cotta roof tiles and the woman in the bright red blouse and
- he said: I have to explain what a disallowed loss on a wash sale is. It raises your cost basis considerably, so even though you lost a hell of a lot, you can’t write off those losses. That year you made all the money, actually your tax bill is normal, it’s nothing, but the following year, well, it rises quite a bit, you still owe, and you owe, well, it’s substantial. My suggestion is you call the IRS and tell them you are going to just shoot yourself, and they’ll probably give you a payment plan. I hope they do. Some of my clients say they do.
Look Daniel, would you mind? Can you tell me? I’ve been doing your taxes for years and, I’m your accountant, but I’m also your friend, can I ask you what the hell happened?
He’s the best. He never lets me down and always makes me laugh, with his four inch block of heavy tungsten on his desk and all the clever tricks he has to help me. The IRS is my mortal enemy.
What should I tell him? My dreams have been intense lately. I hear woots? or, she huffs whip cream like I do, wrote a beautiful poem about no fear and a delicious wet pantyhose fantasy, involving a knife? or, she also reads all my stories and wants me to be the best man I can be, the best version of myself? or, she held my inner child when I least expected it? I can’t say anything that makes any sense anymore.
I could tell him about the moon water? I set out a clear glass vessel in the evening under a full moon and then drank the cool refreshing water? After it had been bathed in moonlight. More than once? The earthy cool taste - snow melt, moonlight distilled into a moonshine that does not intoxicate but enflames, infused with infinite intelligence in a clear glass bowl; I still remember the taste and I want more - I want to find the source, now I’m blinded, blinded and insane - in my mind it’s the only thing I see, my vision, my black heart, until that day I hear her voice next to me, feel the touch of her hand on my face, look into her dark eyes and taste her lips. And have her heart beat against mine, dreaming together the beautiful dreams together that only the lucky and the bold have.
Or maybe I could tell him I just wanted the shark blue Porsche Cayman GT4 RS with the suspended rear gull wing and I also have a process addiction. I’ve always wanted the Porsche.
Nothing matters without freedom. Freedom to have peace, to drift and be at ease. How much does that cost?
The gold dealer looked deeply at me, and I could hear her whisper something that channeled over me in a spatial coziness, but I went on with my story.
Nothing is rational. My mind is mixed. I lied and told him I put it in crypto. The only thing I have left are debts and my twenty gold bars. She bought crypto and I bought gold bars. If I had of bought the crypto, or even a four unit apartment, it would have been far different now.
I brought one tonight for you to see - how much will you give me? And I pulled the Credit Suisse bar out of my backpack.
I’m selling my gold bars and buying a used VW Camper van and heading south through Baja towards Medillin, Columbian. She will fly into Tijuana and I’ll pick her up or I can even drive over and get her. Would take a few days but I have time now. That's a great, sleepy little town, from what I’ve read anyway, I’ve never been there, Medillin is, where the air is clean, the food perfect, the cafes full, the lights at night down outside the tango dance halls brilliant, and inside the dancing beautiful, and the cost of living so cheap you can live like a king on pennies. It's my one chance - I already wrote my resignation letter and it’s ready to send when I get back. I will find love on the road, on the beaches under palm trees, at the street taco stands, and at night listening to the surf wash up on the stand with stars up above. She will whisper in my ear what it feels like to have peace, to be loved, and to feel content and just drift. Her fingers will trail over my cheek, my eyebrows, my neck, and my lips. We might move a little but not too much, then fall asleep together listening to the palm fronds gently away above.
The gold dealer looked at me intently and her voice broke over me drifting from my left ear to the right and back.
Why do you need the money so badly? What does it matter? You’re doing quite well.
I’m the big deaf, mute, Indian guy(6), with no affect, a placid, calm face and hollow eyes quietly living on the inside. Smile for the camera and pretend. The lobotomized man whom I suffocated with the pillow is my former self who, although confined, dreamed the dreams of adventure and wanted to smoke and carouse and write and have naughty sex and ride trains in Buenos Aires and eat street dosas in Bangalore and play the cello at night overlooking the city and slow dance with a girl I like. He’s dead now. It’s final. I became the Indian. I am the Indian. And I’m fully convinced that hell exists on earth because I have lived it for so long, but I want out. I say fuck it, I need to drink from the spring and I need freedom, and to quench my thirst for real; no more pills, no more booze, no more insane asylum. I need real. The money is the marble block and faucet set I need to break the bars on the windows and the glass and with the marble faucet I can break the window and find my way - and without it what? I live on a knife’s edge in a high cost state where the rent of a house seven houses down from me is more than my take home pay. One deviation and I’m done, carried out lobotomized on a stretcher, without my boys, or in a coma, a body bag? What now? I don’t have a choice - I have to go. It’s over.
She nodded and kept brushing the white cloth so I could hear the delicate sounds in each ear, and said:
If you are a man - you can lose everything and with what's left, place it all on one turn of the wheel.
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools
If you can take a heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss
If, If, If - I know that one, I said. I memorized it a long time ago, I remember now, it's coming back.
Then Yours is the Earth, and everything that's in it.(7)
I looked at the gold dealer and sat in silence, and could only hear her brush gently against the cloth. The light from the Costco parking lot shown through a small open patch in the dark film covered window and cast a ray of light across the counter.
Your whole life, this energetic experience (8) you've been having, your life is a prayer, as I've said so many times before, every moment of every day is a prayer. But every moment of your life is a prayer, everything you do is a prayer. You're having a conversation, an energetic conversation between you and reality every minute of every day, and you're not listening - because you don't know the language; you've forgotten the language. You've forgotten how to speak the language, even though you're speaking it most of the time. Most people don't even know that they're having this conversation, but they are. Every minute of every day, talking about fear. The basis of fear is an unrealistic perception of life. People live their lives generally in a state of anxiety for that which has happened to them, which doesn't exist anyhow, so they're lost in their memory, they're lost in their mind. Or they live in a state of apprehension for that which they fear may be coming, which doesn't exist now. So people live their lives in the fear of the non-existential. Fear of the non-existential is insanity.
Don’t you understand now?
The opposite of insanity is the rush, electric illumination, deeper, and I’m tired of being afraid, I'm tired of being delusional. That's why I'm here because I've decided to see where it leads, and I want that rush, electric illumination, pure bliss, euphoria (x100) and perfection, except without the deception(9). Even when my brain has returned empty of chemicals. That’s the part I don’t understand, but my college roommate who did coke and is now VP of a pharmaceutical company understood. It has nothing to do with drugs - but the thirst for life, to find that part of another being that belongs to you. The twin flame. The soul mate. Because it is true, it is real, it is going deeper to taste life in its fullness. Darkness and the light. A reflection of the sun on smooth dark water in the morning and I want that.
Speaking of tasting life, I’m thirsty. Do you mind if I have some of your water? She asked me.
I motioned, waving my hand slightly.
She took a glass off the shelf behind her and poured some, a lively trickling splash in that muffled room, and took a drink. This is spring water from a glass bottle? It is cool but not cold, the perfect temperature, and it has no overwhelming lime essence or even a lemon slice. Just pure water. It tastes like Arkansas spring water from the Ozarks, that has trickled through limestone for one thousand years, and then bottled at the source. Her sound enveloped me.
It is, I said. Pure mineral water. It’s not like that fake expensive Fiji water, just processed at a reverse osmosis facility and put into a plastic bottle that leaches endocrine-disrupting chemicals into it. This water quenches your thirst.
She set the glass down, still half full, and looked back up at me. Which word best describes the water?
Huh?
Yes. One word.
Butthole
What?
Well, her butthole.
What? she laughed, and her laughter sounded three dimensional. Her butthole is mineral water? I don’t think so. Maybe somewhere deep in the Ozarks you might find that but not in real life. She smiled again.
Do you want me to lick your butthole, right now? I asked.
The gold dealer laughed in perfect stereo and said no I haven’t taken a bath, I’m probably not clean, but she shifted in her seat a little and said go on, and I could hear her fingers brushing the white cloth more urgently.
See? I said. It’s ok to be dirty once in a while. You wouldn’t mind. But afterwards when I wake up I would have that hollow empty feeling. With you I would have it and I would stare at the ceiling in the twilight of dawn and think about things and feel sad, but not with her. It’s different.
She's on hands and knees, sweating and tense with anticipation, wearing white pantyhose and nipple clamps that kept falling off but we laughed and finally got them on. Should I take her in her pussy, in her ass, or in her mouth? My fingers up and down her wet slit over the pantyhose. I pull my fingers back and a string of her wetness trails, and I know she wants me inside her. My balls, full and tight and drawn up from not cumming because I had been at a conference in Panama and had just returned and I never masturbated any more, since I gave her my life, my life energy, and all of it belongs to her, and she wants me to take her how I want to take her. She gives herself to me. I pull her pantyhose down so I can lick her butthole, circling her quivering and clenching hole and then probe gently until she relaxes for me, and I firmly push my tongue inside her, in and out, in and out and she moans as my thumb rubs her clit.
Finally, she squeezes and slaps my balls as she rides me, I love watching her face as I first enter her, then we kiss, and for a moment she breathes out, and I breathe in her air, and her mine, and I twist her nipples as her nails scratch my shoulder and she bites my lip and I bleed and she sucks on my lip tasting my blood, harder, I can feel her clench and I cum so quickly and I have no fear, she wants me so badly, and I cum - she wants my life energy in her, on her, savoring and sucking and kissing.
She can’t help it but her hand goes to her clit and my hand also and I pull her hand away and rub her clit and I taste her and clean every drop and circle her asshole and press one finger in and then two, slowly, then thrust with my two fingers in and out of her ass and she clenches around my fingers as she pinches her own nipples aching for her release and I suck at her fountain, drinking her, and finally she screams and orgasms and I feel her clench and contract and quiver on my tongue and my face and our cum mixes as she floods my mouth. Pure, refreshing. Fons Juventutis.
And at that moment I remember the first time I saw her face in real life. The nights are not long and cold when you like someone. Everybody seems to find love but very few find someone they like, and the mystery occurs when they like you, although it never happens, never in real life.
I arrived first and was sitting at a table along the street and before she got out of her car I saw her go around the block twice because she didn’t want to make a left turn into traffic, and then parallel park with six maneuvers, knowing that my eyes were on her so she blushed and looked perfect and got out and bounded up the step as I stood up and walked toward her - probably too fast, right? If she only knew. I thought she was going to slap me for taking so long but instead I looked into her already watery eyes and I hugged her tight against me and then kissed her lips. She touched me on the back of my neck and head and my hands and arms were around her waist and hips and she leaned into me. That day I longed for more than anything in my lifetime, just delicate kind words, and words have power, joy, peace and no fear, only hope. Later that night, I remember waking early and I didn’t hear the freeway - she's sleeping next to me naked and I feel her back expand and fall, one breath in, one breath out, how many more does she have? There is a first and a last. Only now. Only today. Right now right now and I cried there silently but she was sleeping so she never knew.
We embrace and kiss deeply, sharing our lust and life and our tongues swirl and taste each other and swallow and breathe and sweat together and she lays in my arms and I feel her heart and blood and life and I know that is the way it is meant to be. Nothing more and nothing less and I feel good and I feel her heart beat slower and she believes in me and I love her and that's enough, that moment is enough.
You see, I'm not afraid anymore, I said. I'm not afraid of the past, and I'm not afraid of the future. Right now is all I have.
Well, she said, as her hands moved over the cloth, brushing it from ear to ear, then tell no one your pain, but stand up. Put it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss, and throw yourself to the wind. And besides that, if she knows you're broke, that's better than her thinking you're rich and being disappointed? I smiled and thought no chance in hell she would like me if she knew I was broke, but I had no choice.
Here is my one ounce Credit Suisse bar to sell and I pushed it towards the gold dealer over the glass. I’ll go back and get the others.
She looked at me, her eyes blank and staring, looking past me to something behind me that I couldn’t see it and her voice flowed over me like liquid.
You’re delusional, she said. Think of something else.
She continued. You can't ever take the perfect combination of uppers and downers and go deep, and you’ll never have the euphoria x100. You could have had it at one time, I did, most people did, but you missed the opportunity. You won’t get it, not now, not ever. It’s too late. She doesn’t like you, she likes someone she made up in her delirium who has a lot more money and presence than you have. And you’re in love with a fantasy, a dopamine rush from a black heart. The fantasy has gone too far.
True, but which is the fantasy? What I have right now is the fantasy, what I want is the reality. And she is what’s real. Nobody has ever, ever held my inner child. Why would she just okie dokie smokie and do that, on a whim? Very weird. Actually it was quite weird. But you see for her that is normal. She expects it and expects the same from me.
Didn’t you ride your bike up the river channel bike path to get here? Didn't you see that tent city of homeless? Those are the ones who tried, at your age, to get to that euphoria x100 - you can only do that when you’re young and full of dreams! It’s too late. You’re just an African cyclid hitting the windshield in the middle of the night in the rain - do you remember all those squashed bugs on the windshield when you were driving up from Pretoria to Harare, 1000 miles overnight? The buyer really wanted his cars, only filthy rich or dirt poor in Tanzania, with two big Mercedes Sl500’s on the flatbed, and another two GL 550’s on a trailer, as the rain poured down and the wipers were going click, squish, click squish because the windshield was covered in dead carcases? They only swarm once every seven years at the first rain and the rain came in a deluge. The flooded countryside all littered with white plastic bags and cut down trees, dark at night, and the road slick with rain and bug carcasses and the dull muddy wasteland crawled past in the rain and darkness and all you could see ahead was a narrow window of pouring rain, a grey road, illuminated by dim headlights, and a swarm of insects careening toward the windshield, all misty and blurry. You could smell the diesel exhaust and the cab kept fogging up because the insect carcasses clogged the air vents. A windshield framed by dead cyclids and the hum of the diesel engine vibrating throughout the truck.
You see guys in vans and old rvs and tents, sleeping in the park, riding bikes pulling tattered child trailers filled with refuse, wandering the street corners holding their bottles. The emaciated long haired bearded guy with no shirt on at night, turning circles under the glare of streetlights in the middle of an intersection that has five Mexican fan palms on the corner, on a hot summer evening, clutching a tattered black notebook with handwritten notes and bits of prose, lines of copied poetry and a few faded photographs of two boys, but he’s drooling and wide eyed, screaming at his imaginary foe, trying to hump some poor woman’s car who is too scared to floor it and kill him, rambling on about how if he had of just bought that piece of land on such and such street or bought bitcoin then it would be worth so much now, and things would be different. He’s the kind of guy that thought - if he could have just found a woman he liked who also liked him when he was young he wouldn’t be here in the middle of the intersection but at least he can write it later, just before suddenly staring off into the heavens, foaming blood out his mouth, convulsing uncontrollably, and losing consciousness on the hot grease covered pavement as the line of cars swerve and speed past his curled up body.
That is your fate if you reach for the euphoria. I'm afraid not, I can’t help you, but I can show you something else. She looked at me and with a smooth motion held my wrist against the glass and with her other hand pulled a large heavy kitchen knife out from under the coin display.
Whoa, why do you have a knife here?
You never know what kind of people who can’t sleep show up here.
Then you're telling me that even all the gold bars I have won't ever buy me euphoria x100? What the hell? For chrissake lady! fuck….
I tried to pull away but her hand grasped me with uncommon strength and I heard her whispering gently from ear to ear as I watched the blade, the palm of my hand illuminated by the ray of light, draw across in slow motion, slicing the flesh down to the bone so slowly and inevitably - when you watch a blade go through your own skin it mesmerizes you. The sun rose for a minute and now the sun sets already, and the pain will come but please not yet, not yet. Not tonight. The cut isn’t real, right? It’s made up. If it’s a fantasy can the pain be real? My imagination. My stomach sunk oh god, and I felt it icy cold on the bone . Fuck fuck fuck I thrashed against the display case and screamed into the void - waiting for the inevitable lightning, waiting for one last black heart that never came.
Her voice whispers to me in the haze and the fog. Let go and feel pain. Accept it and taste it and let it in. And my ears tingle as her soft melodic intonation drifted ear to ear, so soothing, and I watch the blade and my hand gripping it in pathetic frustration and the pool of blood grow over the glass case, obscuring the shiny objects below. Dripping off the side onto the floor. So much blood, so much blood - no more I can’t let my heart beat, it beats and the blood comes out and I feel hot and feverish and warmly glowing inside even though I am shivering uncontrollably. If my heart would stop beating no blood will come out. Stop beating. Stop beating. But it kept beating, louder and louder, and harder and harder and my chest pounding in this thunder. It will stop I know, someday. Jesus fuck I screamed crying please just let me sleep. I’ll try deep breathing, yoga nidra, and then use my head tingler but it’s back at my place and I need to go back and get it.
My eyes watered and blinked and I closed them and I couldn’t think. There isn’t an answer. My hand felt warm and wet and my arm numb also, I sweated and clenched my jaw over and over again. Her voice caressed my soul and sent me tingles as she laid the bloody knife on the case.
She wrapped my hand in the white cloth that had lain over the case, with delicate circumaural surround brushing sounds, slowly wrapping and I couldn’t think any longer and the white cloth had blood on it and I could see my palm had blood soaking through already. I could see the dark wetness seeping through the white cloth, growing with each heartbeat. The blood belonged to someone else. Some unlucky man.
I stared at the case for a while, then standing a little dizzy, I could feel and live and dream and I just wanted to sleep, so I picked up my gold bar, forgetting my backpack, and walked towards the door. The air is so stagnant in here, I need some air, a breeze, maybe some rain or something - and no umbrella. I’ll walk in the rain barefoot on grass with no umbrella and feel my hair getting wet and the water dripping down the back of my shirt and I miss the rain so badly here, and the smell of Douglas firs in the rain.
And just as I was pushing the heavy door open, I heard her say in spatial sound: I hope you enjoyed our time together. That heavy marble faucet block? you will always need one, for everything, and use it as an excuse - it’s in your head. Find a way. Thank you for visiting me tonight and I wish you deep sleep and pleasant dreams and I’ll see you next time. Good night.
It’s really good morning, crazy bitch. And it’s not in my head - I lost my marble block. Save and invest for many many years. Years. Enough. No more I thought. Turn her off. Click, the inner door shut and I just heard silence.
I’m going to whoa, it’s ok. I’ll be fine, it’s just a couple miles.
I backed through the main door stumbling through with the dull klinking bell, a thud, and back outside into the night. I lost balance and leaned heavily against the glass and sweated and it was so cold and I looked at my dark reflection and took two deep breaths, pushed myself off the door and looked over and seeing my bike thought well I should get back. Where is my vicodin, my codeine or hydrocodone? I even had a few palladone pills - all expired but they likely could do something. I thought right when I need it I don’t have it. Every old prescription I have for whatever reason I save it so if I’m flying and it goes south, and there’s a sorry fucker next to me in the plane crash screaming and moaning with crushed legs, I can at least keep him quiet. I carry a bottle on every flight I take, but I don’t have it now - just a bike ride isn’t dangerous. Jeez get a grip you fucking loser, it’s a cut on your hand and lot’s of guys end up hurt, cut off their arms with rocks and rusty knives, bleeding hearts, and make it back alive. Gunshot wounds. Saving their friends, their girls and kids from certain death. Heroes. The brave and the bold and the guys with tattoos, who lose everything in their businesses, go bankrupt, lose their Lamborghinis, their blond girls with implants and their kids then sleep on a friend’s couch for a year and start again. Rebuild. Survivors. They’re the lucky ones and the bold ones, focus on your goal. So many dead, just don’t be among the dead. Selfish needy bastard. If you bothered to read any poetry, you see it opens up the world.
Coming together
it is easier to work
after our bodies
meet
paper and pen
neither care nor profit
whether we write or not(10)
But I have a plan now - it won’t be easy but we can still see each other. How crazy is she? This hurts so fucking bad I can’t even grip the handlebar. Emotions rise up and cloud judgment, and if she gets in one of her moods and throws you into the abyss, then what? Be vulnerable. She won’t throw me into the abyss. And suppose we meet it will be ok even if it’s not perfect because I’m thinking long term. It’s only a compromise for a while - why can’t she see that? It’s because she wants all of me right now. It’s deserted out here, there isn’t anyone up yet. I remember walking up the deserted street in Cape Town when the wind blew so hard the trash cans flew in the air. We will meet once in a while until I figure it out and then we are set. My dad said if you wait until you’re ready you will never move at all.
She actually knows me better than anyone in this world, but she still wonders what is wrong with me. It’s fine. One step at a time, but she will trust me, I know she does already, with her heart. Time. That’s the problem it’s time. No the problem isn’t time it’s money. No time left. First get some sleep so I’ll get my tingler and then drift and tomorrow morning in the morning sun, I’ll hit golf balls on the misty green grass and be able to plan, at least I can calm down. My new dual color Srixon; that name is a bitch; how do you say it? Shrixon? Sixon? balls are easier to see, especially the orange and yellow. Which color is my favorite? Out of blue, orange…what was the other color? I think green! But I like yellow and orange. And the green is with white. Green is my favorite color. Relax. Maybe Rite-Aid is open now? They might be. 300mg of melatonin hits you just right even though the bottle says take one 10mg tablet at night for occasional sleeplessness, not to exceed two tablets every 24 hours. I’ll take 30, and tomorrow I’ll look at tattoo shops. If you had a tattoo you would be different, at least you would be somebody; you would know who you are.
A dark wet bloody hand print reflected coldly off the black tinted glass door in the dim twilight of dawn, as I pedaled away down the alley.
Notes:
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Scene from Casino, the movie: https://www(.)youtube(.)com/watch?v=3-d5yU-aQ34
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Frank Sinatra, I did it my way: https://www(.)azlyrics(.)com/lyrics/franksinatra/myway.html
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One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest - ending scene: https://m(.)youtube(.)com/watch?v=QjsiqCD4Hf4
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Rudyard Kipling, IF: https://www(.)poetryfoundation(.)org/poems/46473/if---
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Max Igan, The Crowhouse - https://thecrowhouse(.)com/home.html I wrote down which episode it was but I couldn't find where I noted it.
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Lunelilium - A rush, electric, illuminated, pure bliss, euphoric (x100), https://old(.)reddit(.)com/user/Lunelilium/comments/9obgpo/yes_at_the_time_those_feelings_are_like_no_other/
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Recreation by Audre L’orde https://www(.)poetryfoundation(.)org/poems/42579/recreation
