Talking quick in the throes
I am told to keep away from things, but all things entice and all things merit a little touching on, and more than a little, more like a firm grasp that has made white flesh red and white pages redder. After all, that is what a man is. How tall, broad, fat, gasping at fifty, never flirting, except for when he flirts, never drinking, except for when he’s happy as a clam in the deep green sea he never called abyss. Well, now, isn’t this new. Novelty sought a thinking man every time it held him in its midst, waters or not, on a map he never saw and never saw more than half of his body. What a man is, then, is a stout or skinny, smart or kind, whole or on the half-shell thing he gave up from his being. A face for publicity or a face sketched in curlycues. Let us start with the eyebrows, for without those mistakes a lonely God made, we would be always flitting from each other like reducing equations. The one is hairy and the one is not, and uncanny in its being which one, or two, curses more the man in the street who hid his upbringing? And then, the nose, which no one on this green and wild and starving Earth ever cared to notice, since it is athletic, and careless, and crude. And the little numbers no one counts, or can count, or would count, that drip like spittle and are worth as much from the jaw of the man you would dare to call “lover of me, I who am old for my taxonomy, I who am flesh,” and must we admit but a fraction of a body. For, in the end of things when all things end and face their beginning, simple as the cell is, a body would not confess to its heritage, being ancient, knowing of its lineage, harkening back, or, if with an artist fading and bowed to his craw, knowing it must in the light of accidental learning be an image that struck every beauty from its flaw.