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the open options
Aug. 12th, 2003 03:10 pmA word about this Kiki. Here with the cocktail glass. There with the winged memory of what we wanted once. Then holding that unspeakable variety of objects, implements of work and play. A walking kaleidoscope with hands of ice. So.
Under the stars roamed the millions strong peoples of the borderlands. They fled the coming of the great times, the golden ages. They wanted no part of the determinate states, the collapsing of their Schrodinger waves sapped all their strength, all their lusting mixups at the edge of the City, the crushing dustups and sweet love they poured onto the heads of the Angry Men and the Others and the Hungry. We'll get to the Hungry later, their devouring sadness, the opening of their mouths wide and gnashing of their smooth and beautiful teeth. But amid the borderlanders, the in-between women and their next-door men, there landed great gouts of star fire, and falling shadows like the reflections of so many toxic leaves. To so decisively sunder them was difficult and the borderpeople knew it. They dodged the light, uprooted the darkness before it could dig in and generally pruned the flowering of the binary world. They loved interstitially, lauded the space between the stars and the coronas of the universe as god itself. And from their lips grew the middling tongue, glutted with argot and ripened at the penumbras of distinction. You see? They lacked a place of their own, a history of decisions, a lore of certainty. They painted themselves, black and yellow, dotted their heads, their breasts, their stomachs. Ringed their fingers, clenched cigarettes or spears with equal diffidence, ate rice things, rolled things, hand and forked things. They drifted from border to border, mimed the gestures of the Angry Men and passed among them smoothly enough. Hid out in the fields, ran among the forest trees, dove into the sweating city understreets, the alleyways and smokerooms. But among them always was this smolder of sweet lust, unadulterated by design, lust free of decisive desire, unmarred by brute will. The crude willing of things put them off, left them cold and listless. As it does, the lust led to more lust, innocently enough. And after just so many years of kissing bedouins, pinching gypsies, stroking the young, pining for bushido-- after so many years of this, all at the pruned edges of the cultures--they birthed Kiki. Tall and voluptuous, alternately fleet and immobile, Kiki a sort of border demigod(dess) but replete with all manner of lymphatic surprises, hot hormonal peace offerings to the word/world at-large. A gingered debutante, never naive enough to pass but nary sophisticated in specifics. Kiki schooled in the City, tutored in the red rock ridgelands, Kiki among thornbushes and spun helixes of neoned rain, yellowed halide lit highways, middens rank with ferment and baking smells. Treated out of time to see it all in a kind of starlit haze.
The m.o. then: abrupt shifts, light and dark twined just so; rapid departures on the unsteady air. I was an easy captive, we met once at the edge of one City or another City, spoked out at the edge of town out where the structures run lower, the streetlights pool less, the storage places draw their atomized crowds. We met, faces stunned momentarily by recognition, before those border genes took hold, smoothed out the edges, lit up the old lust. So there was a darting of tongues
momentary loving,
then flight.
Under the stars roamed the millions strong peoples of the borderlands. They fled the coming of the great times, the golden ages. They wanted no part of the determinate states, the collapsing of their Schrodinger waves sapped all their strength, all their lusting mixups at the edge of the City, the crushing dustups and sweet love they poured onto the heads of the Angry Men and the Others and the Hungry. We'll get to the Hungry later, their devouring sadness, the opening of their mouths wide and gnashing of their smooth and beautiful teeth. But amid the borderlanders, the in-between women and their next-door men, there landed great gouts of star fire, and falling shadows like the reflections of so many toxic leaves. To so decisively sunder them was difficult and the borderpeople knew it. They dodged the light, uprooted the darkness before it could dig in and generally pruned the flowering of the binary world. They loved interstitially, lauded the space between the stars and the coronas of the universe as god itself. And from their lips grew the middling tongue, glutted with argot and ripened at the penumbras of distinction. You see? They lacked a place of their own, a history of decisions, a lore of certainty. They painted themselves, black and yellow, dotted their heads, their breasts, their stomachs. Ringed their fingers, clenched cigarettes or spears with equal diffidence, ate rice things, rolled things, hand and forked things. They drifted from border to border, mimed the gestures of the Angry Men and passed among them smoothly enough. Hid out in the fields, ran among the forest trees, dove into the sweating city understreets, the alleyways and smokerooms. But among them always was this smolder of sweet lust, unadulterated by design, lust free of decisive desire, unmarred by brute will. The crude willing of things put them off, left them cold and listless. As it does, the lust led to more lust, innocently enough. And after just so many years of kissing bedouins, pinching gypsies, stroking the young, pining for bushido-- after so many years of this, all at the pruned edges of the cultures--they birthed Kiki. Tall and voluptuous, alternately fleet and immobile, Kiki a sort of border demigod(dess) but replete with all manner of lymphatic surprises, hot hormonal peace offerings to the word/world at-large. A gingered debutante, never naive enough to pass but nary sophisticated in specifics. Kiki schooled in the City, tutored in the red rock ridgelands, Kiki among thornbushes and spun helixes of neoned rain, yellowed halide lit highways, middens rank with ferment and baking smells. Treated out of time to see it all in a kind of starlit haze.
The m.o. then: abrupt shifts, light and dark twined just so; rapid departures on the unsteady air. I was an easy captive, we met once at the edge of one City or another City, spoked out at the edge of town out where the structures run lower, the streetlights pool less, the storage places draw their atomized crowds. We met, faces stunned momentarily by recognition, before those border genes took hold, smoothed out the edges, lit up the old lust. So there was a darting of tongues
momentary loving,
then flight.