Do not ask
July 12, 2007
Do not ask about their names ...
cause then I would have to go through the entire alphabet over and over again.
Do not ask about their faces ...
cause my eyes would only a blur remember.
Do not ask about the lines around their mouths when they would smile ...
cause my memory serves only right when thinking of the sunrays.
Do not ask about the temperature of their kisses ...
cause my lips are still recovering from the sunburn.
Do not ask about their tastes ...
as my taste buds have grown numb of all the Bourbon washed through them to sedate my burning pain.
Do not ask about their curves ...
as the memory of my hands and fingers are rather full with melodies they created on the piano when expressing my own hurt.
And do not ask about the sound of their sighs when reaching their climax,
as my ears are now full with harmonies and melodies found and collected by
Piazzolla in ‘Milongas for an Angel’ and Liszt in his ‘Anees De Pilgrimage’ or
Shnittke when he described the final battle in his ‘Bracho Concerto’.
And above all, do not ask me about their numbers
as a gentleman would never tell ... .
not that I would remember anyway!
At most, I may be able to recall someone’s long hair or the colors of their aura or the fullness of their thighs or the richness found in their bosoms.
The best I can do is to consolidate the countless lips, hips, eyes, noses, ears and nipples that I have kissed and call it my ideal.
But you can ask me about the energy and power that they left behind in the most secrets pockets of my spirit.
It is that energy and power that in this shabby bar serving frozen local beers, where plastic and worn out tables are wiped with dirty rags, leavening a repulsive and sour odor behind ... .in this God forsaken place where the smell of blood after the war, amplified by the heavy rain still lingering in the dirty street with loose skinny dogs roaming around and with ‘Machistas’ whistling after you as if you were a prey and give you the feeling that they would spit you out once they have satisfied their hunger ... yes, it is in this far-out place, that that energy enables me to still smile and keeps the sparkle in my eyes lit.
It is that energy that displays power in my aura and prevents drunken and frustrated machos sitting around the next table to stick their knives into my belly. Machos form the past, a past when they were riding their Indian horses in the jungle with a rifle in their hands shooting each other in the name of liberty and justice, but now have turned into castrated dogs with no one to bite or bark at except themselves and a few ‘Gringos’ passing their ways.
Yea ... my eyes are fixed at the blade of his knife and his eyes are fixed on my gold chain ...
I can see him licking his lips dreaming about all the Ron and hookers he can buy with my gold chain ... but he dares not to get up. He just hugs the handle of his knife tight, while locking his eyes into mine. Then I tilt my head a bit and look at him intensely ... and he looks away for a second ... releasing the tension. My veins on my forehead are now full of blood, standing out, giving the shape of two horns soon to stick out as the adrenaline increases in my blood ... intimidating him.
He wishes that I would make a move, to jump-start him, bringing him out of his paralyzing fear. But I do not indulge him ... after all, this is not the way I would like to depart from this world ... not with this repulsive odor from the dirty rag still in my nostrils.
Not even his friends and the peer-power that he must feel right now, nor half a bottle of liquid courage called RON helps him. Because he doesn’t know how to dink ... just how to get drunk!
But the real thing that determines the fate of this moment, is simply the strength and power of the feminine force given to me and guarded by me through all the loving of all the women in my past, that has nailed him to his chair.
Because a man’s masculine power is rooted in its opposite ... the feminine force.
And then suddenly, I feel sorry for him and pity this man who is ready and if overcoming his fear would get up and stick his knife into my belly to get that shiny golden chain. But most importantly to proof to himself that he has not been mentally castrated.
Yes I pity him ... cause I look into his eyes and find emptiness ... Comment
empty of ‘Woman-Love’.
June 7, 2007