The Virgin of the Smokestacks

is an endless optimist...

These words yearn to escape the awful plight of sitting latent in my stale mind.  Once attached to robust imagery like ‘a summery garden picnic’ or ‘raucous fans in the stands’, they now huddle meagerly and impatiently together, detached for the most part from any thought at all.

I’m sitting in a coffee shop on a humorless Saturday morning, gazing out the storefront windows, and watching the wind and rain make mischief upon the luckless who are stuck commuting out of doors.  As the wind blows by, my words flutter with excitement believing that they, too, can take wing on a breeze and win release with a lift-off of new meaning.  But they’re fools, these words.  They are.  Their fluttering is creating a reverberation in my head that’s aggravating my post-hangover discomfort.

I know, I know, the little bastards think they’re cute in pretending to the occasional expression of semi-ballistic bliss that they deem some form of poetry.  But I’ll whip the asses of these little pretties, I will, before allowing them to cajole me again into a literary orgy where I end up playing the hapless harlequin before their queen and kingliness. 

Fucking good-for-nothing words.  I need sex, not merely more of the imaginative inspiration they alone get off on.  If I could, I swear I’d submit these words to a gross act of dominating bestiality to teach the nouns some proper respect and show the verbs what decisiveness is really about.  I’d take the words ‘good girl’ and make them spread, ‘open orifice’ would get a mouthful, and ‘tender bashfulness’ would be sadistically bashed into their first orgasmic flush.  Oh yeah, there wouldn’t be one damn virgin word left in my head when I’d get done.  Then, post-coital, they could all commingle together, clinging embarrassingly to the dark but unifying meaning that my mastery of them impellingly infused.

And you know what?  I’d bet after the rawness I ripped through them healed a bit that they’d all come crawling back for more.  Oh yeah.  Little masochistic bits of alphabet—they’ll become my good little bitches yet.  Just wait and see.