WHITE CANE

The necrophiliac is trembling in the back of the car,
because it's the British police. I make my voice normal, wonder
sincerely about the weather, calm her down. I am sometimes
little Ceasar of the underworld. This guy driving is fine, I say,
I know through a slim but strong connection, through a brother
I've never met. And he is. The police not only go away but
direct us to the next place. The driver's got badly mangled hands
from the London tube fire, I've already learned, since I met him,
to mention the London tube fire like I would a mention a jazz
semi great I've never heard of either. Say the name, Bill
Frisell, pause one two three four beats, and see if there's a nod
of recognition. I white cane my way through other people's
reactions to the clues and queues of consensus reality. London
Tube Fire pause two three four.

At least it's not Ayn Rand, Big Brother two three four at
least it's esoteric, thus I comfort myself. Excuse me but I. I
feel that. Never made it that far without imagining myself out
of the picture. But the one year stands are only a couple of
nights now, and there's not that much. He's so so, is what he
is, the stupid fuck, I have just said about Geiger. I am
borrowing phrases from those who learned English with great
difficulty, unable to wrap their lips around Aaaaaactopus,
hAAAAAArold, but probably cruel never the less.

I'm so protected that I'm through, but under the ground I'm
alright, a queen even, delusional on a grand and lovely scale,
and over the ground I dodge so fast you'll never catch me
wanting. Our idiot species is in a count down. The slick mangled
driver and I are not so different, you could use your tits more
on stage, he says, but I'm not insulted. He just doesn't know
what a wide variety of talent I span. These tits do keep me
female, but females tremble, write recovery books, obsess, grow
round bellies by sitting still. I am built to survive, not to
express myself.

Flannery O'Connor nailed it, because if someone's going to
steal your fucking wooden leg you'd pray to any God you'd ever
heard of. Bottom line is a store with cheaper goods, units, I
use these words with the frail confused warriors, goods, units,
items, borrowing phrases from the beginnings of trade. Bottom
Line is a club with guys who had one hit, with people who rose
to the top, music is ok when it's a business, a business,
anything you do for free they wrongly call volunteer,
accidentally implying an emphatic desire. Was it volunteer, no
I'm trapped in this capitalistic model of a web, so inextricably
trapped I can only accept the web before I age beyond not
recognition but use.

My sister had a convict con man and I stayed in the room
acting cheerful and dense until he left. My sister had a tall
man I tried to rent her to. Reality mutates when you try to
clumsily manipulate it, but I was just using my insane
intelligence to try and participate. She wasn't rentable, but he‹j ‹
owned her long enough to tie her up. Those grown ups, I thought,
swigging my bud, but now I've been tied up a few times myself,
mostly by a tall man.

My sister had a methadrine man who ate steak 'ums, cheese
steak 'ums that she lovingly prepared in their spare little
condo. Protected by Tandy Security, he joked, meant you'd stand
there and throw those heavy Radio Shack catalogues at people
until they went away. Not a bad joke, he was a good one until he
turned into one giant conspiracy theory, dangerous himself. He'll
have me killed, sobbed my sister, jaggedly driving down a
Hollywood Boulevard, he's had other people killed. I felt petty
that my primary and haunting concern had been a large checkered
comforter from Macys. I've never had many things as substantial
as that comforter, but my sister's fit was grand style, huge,
police inspiring.

She got an artistic Japanese who grew up in Berkeley and
couldn't leave the firm Buddhist arm of his father's business.
Treat her right, I threatened, Don't let him in, I said, as
combination queen of the underworld and somebodies uncle. There
are things I can participate in, they just conflict with certain
doormen. She got a man similar to a cop, a reserve Navy air
conditioning salary man, handsome in a beefy way, nice probably,
less damage than us. Soothed and then bored, she left.
I've been pretty busy myself, but the thing with family is
they seldom move out of conscious contact. My sister and I have
each other's numbers, but never call. I'm afraid I may have to
leave them all behind.