it's all ground up and put out to the buzzards
something taken from a room in the back of my mind called fear of certain women Just thoughts lost without gravity
I like your smell , she says, I like your tired eyes.. Come here , rest them on me.. Your lack of concentration, morning drowsiness, spurts of coffee hypomania.. find sleep with me
Trying to shot her out, I still thought of her cement shoes, she had the foundation of a house on her feet, her brown bag shopping bag carrying arms reaching out for me, wanting to consum me.
This woman had settle in the east, I was still going west in my hot air balloon.
Talking about night and day, you say, cat and mouse.
Ofcourse she is all that, me still undecided, don?t care to play those corridor games.
But I?ll still have sex with her, why not ? I?ll bury my face in her wollen sweater right at her breasts, inhale her honey, nectar conditioned her and pretend it?s all beautifully natural. Ofcourse.
We?re both drunk , our drunkeness, hornyness, momentary carelessness are our common ground for us to act out on it is the grounds never the persons that matter
It could be her it could be the next girl, next drunken cement shoe girl out on the wrong night doing the right thing.. it could be me it could the drooling, tattooed army sweating animal idiot next to me.
Do I feel cheap ?????? I feel bourgeoisie priceless, really above those tags, or should I say pride is not the question it?s the temption of no consequence, which balloon skipper could say no to a quick landing and a fast take off , no risc. None
So I reach out for her, naked as she is without her suburb house, carreer, dog, too drunk not to enjoy it. I bite her neck she puts her hand down my pants, we do all the ordinary nameless things you see nameless people do on the commonground, playground, fairground and all the other grounds they find themselves on in their escapades.
Later at the headache hour I try to find a horizont and pass out did I get or get rid of whatever I needed to get or to rid myself of . today it is my heavy head coffee fever shivering bodyI try to get through the doors down the stairs, looking for her finding her handcuffed to her shopping cart. I reach out, feel her ,differently, say who?s ground is this, only to my self. Will she tell me will she smack me across the face saying you black crow bird of misfortune don?t tell me anymore of other grounds to crack up my cement. The answer isn?t important just the reaction for my reflection




 		. past midnight with my dad in my apartment i find but little inspiration. as always i hope just beginning will soon lead me to find myself in the middle of nowhere. well speaking of this world at least. what i mean is out of this world and into the world where my words create. the forest, the cities, the bars, the beaches. first there must be light. then ill start looking around. remember the cafe in milano i told you about. that was a merge of the two. sometimes i have no choice but to let one world spill into the other. spill isnt really the right term. because that is not how it happens. i find myself in a room. full of kids. im a kid too. there is a blackboard. a grown up. the grown up is speaking and i am supposed to listen. i have no will in this matter. whats being told doesnt really interest me. looking elsewhere doesnt offer anything. there are no other sources of information for my mind to play with. whether i want it or not the grown up is where my attention should be and there really isnt any other place it could be. then something happens. as my mind is resting against the front of my skull, to reduce the distance and ease the process, something comes to life. noone else registers. it comes front within me. without my wanting it removes me from this room and takes me places. in those days it could be tolkiens forests with elves and trolls. some years later to intimite situations with young girls that somehow always seemed a little older than me. they were my little helpers. today I want to be a revolutionary so im taken to places already at war. places that arebeing torn apart and demolished. the most fertile ground for new ideas. i never seem to run dry.....
the flow the other way is not so smooth, actually it is more like an abrupt interuption. my name being called. a toe that hits a blunt object. some sudden movement. for some reason it's always my senses that calls me back. i think if my mind was left alone id stay away forever.
the other day on my to french lessons i passed the geographical museum, or maybe it was one of the museums connected to the scientific institutions at the U. out front their was a big poster with an old photograph of a great white hunter next to a beast he had slayed. it was an elephant. 20 times bigger than him it had still fallen. not after a ferocious test of strength where the two giants had fought for the supremecy of the savannah. it had fallen to a the least of efforts. a snap of one of his fingers and it was all over. he didnt really show any emotions on the picture but still i could sense some sort of pride. it didnt come from the man himself. it sort of came from the whole arrangement. the elephant bull dead on its knees next to its killer- the man with the riffle. not dc livingstone or one of blixens forgotten lovers. just man with a riffle. it was a milestone picture. man had defeated the beast. man had finally taken the step away from his unworthy ancestors. with a kill. it made me look a little uptime from when this picture was taken. the beast has never risen again and man moved on to new challenges. or rather one new challenge. man was now the master of all the living beings he lives among (well, if you can kill it you master it, right) so what could more natural than to master the other ancient enemy-nature. and so he went on to kill it. today we are this close from the reaching the top- world supremecy. ofcourse there are consequences but from where i sit my little cube in the hipe i dont smell the dead flowers so ill keep on humming. and ofcourse we only kill it to teach it good manners. well, these thoughts made me think of a story that i have been told time and again. the legend of oedipus. the lost son who returned to kill his father and rape his mother. father beast - mother nature. how did the story end ?
caught in a caf� in Milano
Caf� , milano


I went in the front door. I could tell by the stickers they took their coffee seriously, one didn?t even have to enter to know exactly how and what kind of delicately roasted black beans, pure blood Arabians, they?d pulverize and serve for me. Paying shouldn?t be a problem either, the stickers promised they?d definitely find a way.
Once inside the place I took off my backpack and placed against a table, the table moved as the weight of the backpack leaned against it. It was made of plastic. A crack in the picture revealed itself. As I moved to relief the table of this embarrassment I accidentally kicked a chair, also plastic, and sent flying. Bits of paint started dropping to the ground.
As if he noticed, the first coffee serving waiter gestured me to get away from the table while he mumbled something in a less than friendly tone. What they didn?t have in chairs and tables they did have in attitude. I refused the compensation and went to the bar to fulfil my essential reason for coming here. I ordered a caf� latte. I figured I might as well take advantage of my limited Italian vocabulary. The waitress at the other side of the counter seemingly repeated her colleagues request while pointing in the direction of what should be a caf� table. The first waiter had in the meantime grabbed the table and the belonging chairs and was in the process of moving them to the other end of the caf� leaving my backpack more and more alone. I saw no alternative than to move it to one of the tables outside as the rest inside were all occupied.
The waitress poured some milk into a glass-silver hybrid or maybe leftovers from last weeks fleamarket then pulled a couple of handles on what looked like a model of an early industrial age factory. As I looked at her making the coffee I got really impressed with the skill that was of a woman you?d expect have considerable anciennity in the business.. She really had to appreciate the AC , actually I did too, had it been as hot inside as outside her make-up would melt and fall right off her face and I would have the most colorful caf� latte ever served in Italy. Instead it stayed ?nicely? on her face in the thick layers in which she had carefully arranged it earlier that day. If it helped her looks I am probably not the right person to judge but it definitely didn?t take off one day of her age nor did it give her back the beauty she might never had had. I don?t think anybody could look at any differently than when one looks to buy a used car with that has been shined up with a really bad paintjob. You don?t consider the aesthetic aspects of the color or finish rather you?re thinking; I wonder what the hell is under there. Anyway, I guess that for her as for so many others it was belief and not things as they really are that gives her comfort. I could?ve said protection but then I?d have to punch her first.
Now that the caf� latte is almost finish I must say that in spite of everything it was one of the best I ever had. That it got cold I can only blame myself. I was the one to pick up on all the confusion in this place. Sometimes I wish that coffee could be served in a non-contradictory and carefree manner.