Detective Story

10 Jan

———–

                          Detective Story                     

 

            Which of us is searching now?

            Which one of us drew the short coke straw to play the role of the one found? Were you looking for me while I was looking for you? I’ve been writing like a mirthless Dashiell Hammett. We should have gotten together just to save time. But we were always restless and careless about how time dangled.

            Too depressed to function outside of a few months at a time.

            Now it is September in the end of the unfinished Hemingway novel, but it is already mid-October over here. And she threw out his stories and his clippings and he grew bored with her madness and took the dark girl for a ride along the Spanish countryside.

            There are lines and contradictions that made us consider the practicability of our fantasies. Because you know what they’ll all say: “not again”, “she’ll destroy you this time around”, “isn’t it time for something new?”

            They don’t know that I’ve gone through the new and the old and the other like an eager chronologist. Get the condoms for free, when you don’t have money and the Duane Reed-time to waste while they’re fumbling for the keys to open the glass case by the pharmacy aisle, in Village gay bars. In and out. They don’t seem put off. They want to be helpful and see if I want a drink. But, no, I have places to get to. Leather-adorned, festive company wouldn’t cheer me up. I have to go and find her.

            Restless and careless about how time dangled.

            In the memories that faded I’ve forgotten her skin as it glistened displaying the caveat emptor asseveration, like a clinical bit of risk meant to frighten and to arouse, like a religious observation perverted underneath my heathen fingertips. I guess this is why simple people freely admit that dangerous situations excite them.

            I kissed the line of her back years ago searching for further clues along its curlicue. I though for once I had an answer. A lovely Arcadia in our bed, wild as her hair on late mornings, where Pan is serving drinks.   

            But she finds a new truth about once in a season. This one a crumpled dollar bill breaking the pill into a powder. I submit and kiss her like a paternal blizzard.

            We’ve been building towards a savage cold, but we might find a night to be warm. It will get here with the approaching storm.

            Exposed then covered in my arms and my new words; because it’s been so long, and I have nothing else to add. Just old promises to reiterate.

            So, I’ll smoke a cigarette after a dirty dream and play that Leonard Cohen record from the year you were born and laugh a bit at a coincidence that isn’t particularly funny. I’ll remind you that they’ll never catch us – and each new day will be like primetime, like a gelastic cavalcade of freedoms pawned to us for a few pieces and gold chains.

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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