Multiplicity

...by way of a comment left on woodnymph's blog...

The economic myth of Economic Man requires that we all remain unalterable identifiable unities until our very last breath.  So you are woodnymph--you must REMAIN woodnymph forever!  But trans-mythic reality is not so harsh...

Once there was a little woodnymph who imagined herself a branchfairy!  And branchfairy wakened to every break of dawn embracing it as an eventful novelty.  Every color seen was a different perceptible shade or pastel, every shadow encountered was a darkening into mystery, every sound the start-up of a new symphony.  O branchfairy, is woodnymph not the fulfillment of you?!  But woodnymph wants to play, still play--so stay branchfairy, linger, and rediscover this awakening that now expectantly awaits you!

So woodnymph and branchfairy playfully resume!  And the play lasts the day until the shadows grow long and then as the forest shivers warm with twilight, branchfairy must flee.  But in the shadows awaiting woodnymph, is another, treesprite.  Treesprite has watched woodnymph for, it seems, forever.  And has shared in her dreams, and fears, and secret wishes.  And would have come out and played with woodnymph and branchfairy except that she is drawn closer to the the fiery passion of dark delights. twilight encounters, and moonlit reconnoiterings.  Woodnymph has known these things, too, but in more familiar woods and not treesprite's forest deep.  And as the twilight fades and the shadows into blackness merge, treesprite extends her hand to woodnymph with a whisper of "you know me...I am you."  First touch, then bond, and then together running softly in tandem into the night. 

Economic Man screams "Come back, woodnymph, all's danger--come back!" 

But woodnymph and treesprite have passed out of sight to discover the joys of the night. And there concelebrating they will await the moment of dawn when  branchfairy yet again will awaken embracing all, and especially them, as an eventful novelty, a revelry, a communion of glowing.  And as we all know, the glow of sunrise on a new day has a horizon but no boundaries.

Running amuck in the hood
and I almost forgot what this is all about…
which is to…???

Oh hell, what did my friend say?  Oh yes, he said: “You don’t remember, but I do.  The night that Ms. Lynn Thomas, the only fucking girl ever to be designated a Playboy Playmate and a Penthouse Pet came up behind you, put her arms around you, and said ‘What’s happenin’, Foot Boy?’”

So I’m the Foot Boy??  Ah yes, the thing for feet!  But that’s, well, in the past….

Do you see the woman running?  She’s running to the TV in the other room to concurrently  whistle to the Alfred Hitchcock “Good Evening” tune that’s playing!   hahhaha

These words are almost as disconnected and disjointed as a ghost parting from the planet.  See the thought form, cogitate, and dissipate as one must.  In endless, upset, imperfect disgust.

Foot Boy!  Yes, she was swooning naked in front of me and all I noticed was her feet!

Buckle my shoes.

Yellow, pink, and polka-dot fantasies crowd my cranium.

ONE, TWO

Just making myself relevant
Working for a B.A. in Psychology.
BSing my way through with Sulph and Phets,
Sputtering senseless spew to late playing rock records
And long burning electric oil lamps.

ONE, TWO

Late-raiding beautiful dorms—us frats—with all sorts of roarities,
Pillow fights,
And lovers in the night,
Here’s Shakespeare writing my biography,
And Milton.

Milton Berle at the Friday night drive-in
Singing Texaco songs,
While we pubic throngs keep bopping under the moon
In a gourging delight.

ONE, TWO

Drinking-driving on Mad Dog dibbings,
Cruising around the town,
Then needing to fill-fuel my machine, filling-her-up,
And excusing myself for an abrupt—
Throw up  Throw up  Throw up

Damned 3.2

Screwing my accumulative—
Not enough to make the Dean’s List,
So?
So pushing myself a little harder, faster, farther,
Burning my ass under a cindering sun,
And barely making the Team,
Until I’m cutting classes.

ONE, TWO

Rose-colored contact lenses meet a girl at the Drop Inn
With legs spread wide beckoning me to her apartment,
And all night just laying there,
Working on my thesis,
Jesus,

ONE, TWO

On through Graduate School,
Finishing touches
And old hat down pat,
Until I graduate
And done,
I’m out into the world
A bum.

Foot Boy!