trying to think in smaller terms. trying to escape the idea of size. i look at this pond, actually a marsh adjacent to a lake that is actually the Pacific. there is a wet beauty filling this mass. a single crane, examines the scene of a thousand ducks, stationary and long, elegant and above the quacks judging. i wonder through a window if they're cold right now, the way my feet feel after i drank too much coffee, sweat drenched and sandy in my toes. the lite reverberation of caffeine draining out the food below. pure diuretics inside as such like beer and wine, coffee and straight vodka with no chaser.
the crane is staring them down. the crane is a lofty objection, a thing to be desired, but i'm just a funny little quack, duck diving, not trying to stay dry. I want to channel my inner Sinatra now, as an exercise in levity. Sinatra tells me;
"Got my tweed pressed, got my best vest, all i need now is the girl.
Got my stripped tie, got my hopes high.
Got the time and the place and I got the rhythm.
Now all i need's the girl to go with'em.
If she'll just appear we'll take this big town for a whirl.
And if she'll say, 'My darling, I'm yours',
I'll throw away my striped tie and my best pressed tweed.
All I really need is the girl."
She's blank in my mind to be filled in later. Her hair smells like cinnamon, her eyes are blue like sapphires, her face is carved out of soap. She's imperfect in all the best ways. Her butt's big and thick with a tiny waist, her breasts are just a tad too big for her frame. One of her teeth is crooked, but in that Lauren Hutton sexy gap-toothed way. when she touches my face she rubs my beard against the grain with the backside of her hands and presses her cheek next to mine irritating the delicate skin of her face. she doesn't mind my forty pound chin or the elongated features of my face. she toys with me though and says,
"why the long face?"
she's five foot six, give or take an inch or two, always has nice breath and wears clothes that are just tight enough. she loves all the music i listen to even though she's barely heard of most of it. she prefers wine over beer but can maintain regardless. her apartment is immaculate and white, but she pays her rent with her own money. she rolls joints better than i can which isn't saying much.
she makes me want to stay in on the weekends. she makes hangovers tolerable. she holds my hand when we cross the street. she dresses my wounds when i fall. she pops the pimples on my back. when we french kiss she doesn't jam her tongue down my throat. she bites my lower lip.
i hold her hair when she gets sick and i don't laugh. when she gets mopey we hangout and listen to depressing folk music that only makes things worse. she loves dancing with me. we go to bed at nine sometimes. she loves my natural body odor and sometimes sticks her nose in my armpits. she steals the covers from me in the middle of the night. she's like a goddamned radiator in bed and i sweat when she snuggles next to me in the middle of the night. in the shower she has amazing soap that makes me feel grotesquely clean. i can be myself around her and she doesn't play stupid games.
this is the litany. idealistic, i know. I'm looking for the crane in the sea of ducks flying, whirling around everywhere. i don't know where she is. i don't know her name.
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