building a bridge

if we are to build this bridge together, arm in arm, blood dripped back and forth, then i must be allowed to waver from distractions like my odor, hygiene and fingernail length. i need my nails to grip earth, to claw at the rocks as you use my lithe body like a lever. i will brush my teeth on the daily even twice if my breath makes you feel a morbid discomfort. i cannot, however shake the crunchy crust from mine eyes. i will clip my long curvy eyelashes if the beauty becomes to much for you to bear. speaking on odors, beneath my pits, you must know that i have fans, women squarely who'd love to live beneath them, intoxicated by that smell and so for them i must keep all anti[s] and deo[s] at a fair distance because they live for that au natural, manly musk i spray. and on the compass click, and those supernatural, early rising roosters in my head i can wake and look at my old, tired face and say, "they're not paying me to shave." so i do not shave, pal. i just want you to understand that we are building a bridge, no clean shaven man has done so, and no clean shaven man ever will, at least not by choice. every man's tried their hand at it, growing the whiskers outward, shielding the cheeks, the chins, parts of the upper neck with fur that can mask something they feel lacking. for mine its a way to look my age. that's all. a way to look an age, my age. god bless my beard.

at the end of the day, building this bridge as much as the light allows, i will go away from it, and drink ales, browns and whatever gets tossed my way. i will raise my eyes and scope west hoping the bridge will lead us somewhere. you'll be there too. you will smile from stools opposed to mine and laugh at my artifice, snail jokes, straw impersonations and compulsion towards hysteria, in my ennui, in my neurotic plebeian-pigpen swirling dervish of browned cloudy climate in the room.

as we build this bridge I will close my third decade and begin a fourth i want to ditch these cozy encounters for something the same but more refined. i will become your local scoundrel. we will finish the bridge and form a union. Local 69! Ha! no we're more original than that, remember? local 8. local 74. fuckit whichever number isn't taken. scoundrel, now this isn't an ugly word. okay, its ugly but understand this my friend, its simply a veneer. instead of throwing your shitty half wet hair in a beanie, lets make it slick backed and exposed. enough pomade to drain that dapper dan can straight to those lockes. be careful not to think that this will change you too much fine trapper! those lagers, the sordid assorted browns and the random in between might not come as frequent but its all about, what Tom Wolfe phrased in The Pump House Gang, the life. the appearance of a true swindler, to look as if one's a grifter.

look like something your not. we've been cheated in life because of the kindness of our faces. we must fold hair in halves. pump up the oil steam stream, build up a lather, find it in the crease, the grease that is. wax your stache. sleep like Poirot, with the long Scroogy sleepy dunced-cap. not an oily, man save the hair. dress as a fox would. feel the SOL, on your skin and darkened hues of your flesh. find heat in the dead of winter. deliver news to friends with sarcasm and drama. open up yourself with a can opener. write, please write.

Battle Axes

I scolded this old lady at the taqueria the other day. She cut me in line. I couldn't help it. I was standing in line and she was having difficulty deciphering who was waiting for their food and who was in the line. She asked almost every person around the counter including me if we were in line. The window opened for me to take my order and this old battle axe snakes me.  I hadn't eaten all day so I felt justified in my reaction.

"Lady, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

She turned to me and looked up very sheepishly and blank saying, "I asked if you were in line."

"And if you recall my answer was yes, I am in line, now get behind me and wait your turn."

I was so irritated that I forgot what I wanted to eat. The guy at the register kept asking me all these questions and I couldn't come up with the answers.

"Regular or super burrito, avocado, sour cream..."

As I turned around to sit down I noticed that everyone was staring at me like a crazy person and it kind of hit me.

Am I a prick? I mean I know I'm not a prick in my personal life. I'm giving and thoughtful. I sacrifice for others.  But how is it that we should judge ourselves? In our personal lives solely? I mean if I'm an asshole at the taqueria on a Friday afternoon in front of a bunch of strangers, does that seal me up? A tremendous feeling of guilt came over me right then.  It was like a freighter dropping cargo on my back.  My food became flavorless, my mouth parched with disgust.  I used to be the nice guy and now I'm chopping old ladies heads off because she cuts me in line, delaying my food by all of one minute. What do i learn from this;

Patience is a virtue.

The other day I was waiting behind an old Filipino lady who was getting a train ticket.  She couldn't figure out how to work the add machine.  I was getting very flustered and rolling my eyes, sighing, heaving deep and loud, in and out, in and out.  But I caught it.  I realized how ridiculous it was to be so anxious about something so trivial.  So I helped her.  I asked her where she was going, added the right amount and away she went saying "thanksyous, thanksyous." I made my ticket, and followed after, walking down the escalator feeling pride in my control. Getting to the bottom I saw the old lady rushing toward the train I was trying to catch.  She hobbled her old bones right through the door as I sprinted up to see them close in my face, her waving her arthritic hands with glee and delight, a snaggletoothed smile streaking across her face. 

"Fuck me," I said. If only I hadn't helped her I would've made the train. But where's the fire

Patience is a virtue.