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.