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Previous: Licentious Intentions: A Shipwreck (the dirty mick) Series, No. 2

“Morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, hooray!” Another glorious sunrise from my decadent urban chateau.

Every morning, right above my mattress, perched on the branch trying to grow through my window: Peepers. “Okay, guys. I get it: I’m alive.”

The three on the branch will multiply soon. They’ll come from far away. I’m known to them as the man who makes clouds. They’re known to me as a couple of funnies.

As a person whose limits are beyond the excess, I keep my quarters for living modest with temperance. My particular taste: shy of extravagant — because neighbors with questions can cramp my misdeeds.

I’m not a guy that wants to hang out. I’m not socially aching to showoff my things. What I want from others is to see my deterrents: I can hardly fit Me in my personal space.

My current location was secured with some difficulty. A poet might say that speaks of the times.

I never used to have problems befriending one renting. As king of specifics, I’m game to the keep. First or last name and any form of a number: yields the universal attraction by way of simple query. Any effort required is all in the peacock — let it happen naturally and you’ll check into mate:

“Is that a Georgia O’Keeffe print on your T-shirt?!”

“Damn right! And boy was it hard to find — I had to drive to Medford to get this.” Or wherever they have emotional ties.

“Medford, huh? My parents lived there.” But no longer appear in their family photos. “That’s a long drive.”

“Yeah, but it’s such an amazing exhibit. And since I was due for a visit to my cousin’s cricket farm” — a leaning confession, a whisper of guilt — “I just put Celine on repeat and let my chakra drive.”

Once a frown now upside down — would I mind if they shined me with love?

It only use to be that easy. Landlords nowadays, they don’t operate on hunch. They, too, know how to use Search. And beyond that, their grand-kids can pull up satellite imagery right on their walkie-talkies. The last thing my ego needs is some little punk bustin’ my pastel-lovin’ cover.

The landlord here I didn’t bond with. A young lady on my arm did, using my cash as enticement. We didn’t exactly bottleneck options. This place was found and chosen with haste. I was comfortable as hell in the arrangement I left. And the last time I said that was probably never.

The girl? — a remnant from a gig near past. Collecting her was forced adaptation: My friend had a thing — it required some work — and she was a product resulting.

Damage control is tricky business. If your old lady is exploring the option to witness, and my sleeping with her leads to her Civil Commit, your lawyer will explain the job I’ve done as one that discredits her testimony.

And if she was just thinking out loud — maybe I misunderstood — I kept her safe from herself and your friends, and she’ll be here when you come home for her later.

It’s not a preference. It’s not a mistake. And it’s not my case, it’s yours. I’m just the guy who’ll work your best interest using whatever unorthodox method is necessary.

If your twenty-year-old stepdaughter takes fancy while I’m questioning insidious characters, she’s probably best under wing until I sort them all out.

History speaks to my actions as man, and there’s time for apologies later.

Or maybe not. Like if both measures are taken while dealing with one extreme circumstance: Well, I wouldn’t expect to hear from you then.

The girl is gone now. But I still rock this spot because I dig the arrangement: Pay rent to the man who hosts invisible tenants, months in advance, more for less, and extra with no questions included.

I like to think of it as kind of a Bat Cave/halfway house.

In all the months that I’ve lived here, I’ve never even learned my own address. I make it a point not to exist to the mailman, and I keep my eyes crossed when I drive past the sign. My house numbers are hidden, as well as my street — and it’s taboo if you try to find either.

The nest is protected by a six-foot fence, perfect camouflage for my converted attachment. Where there use to be grass now lies pebbles — prevention from visitors approaching in stealth. There’s a lady that lives in the driveway camper, she keeps me a list of car makes and plates. Call it strange if you want, but I like the service. Her little projects work well for my sleep.

I can switch residences up to six times a year, and it’s not uncommon to keep two or three at a time. A room in this town, a studio in that one. Basement apartments and trailer park compounds, they all offer their own unique form of vantage.

I have utilities in my name, but not for my address. Nor for any other ever planning my visit.

I style my driver’s license photo in the look of “batshit crazy.” Run a check in the system and I live with my mom. Mom gets upset at the sight of my mail and I’m sure she’ll pick me off if she knows where I’m hiding.

Any research at all and it’s assumed I live homeless. That’s a benefit to me if you see me in cuffs: Police have no interest in cardboard boxes, and I have no interest in relinquishing toys.

My music credentials placate the neighbors, who are prone to raise eyebrows at curious frequents: Travel, women, excessively jeweled visitors carrying multiple duffels of nightmares and dreams…the list of scheduled obscurities can go on for long. Normal-type people don’t put up with that shit — unless being subjected to it by the mildly famous. And fame, my friend: it’s just a state of mind — anyone can pretend to be an asshole.

Every once in a while I’ll treat myself to a house. Something with three bedrooms, a yard, and double-car garage. These months are spent paying to keep rooms empty. And they’re followed by resentment when I fill them with girl.

To have a place in the house she pretends well with neighbors. Her friends can come and visit whenever they’d like. My friends are liabilities and thus not invited: I don’t need to be called by a name that rings bells from a thing that may or may not have happened to her cousin or brother. Moving’s expensive — why take the risk? No matter how many times I try to explain it, most my associates fail to understand.

To view my current habitat, you’d think I’m full of shit. Especially if it’s mentioned the things that I collect: Things like an antique soda machine — the kind with glass bottles — or a seven thousand dollar couch that I let tour with my friends. What kind of guy keeps office equipment for four with six hundred-pound bales of damiana in storage? — this kind. Couldn’t expect it.

I say that to say this: That shit’s no use to my daily routine. And when spread out properly, it can’t be attached to a localized circumstance. That’s why I let everyone have something of mine. Everyone.

So maybe it’s weird, my sleeping on the floor with this mattress. But I don’t even use the mattress for six months out of the year. That’s to remind myself the threat of a pinnacle hustle: One misstep can fall everything around me.

If it wasn’t for the fact that I find bad times subjective, it would feel a lot like cheating — how I embrace the good. It can all be confusing when I do bad things. But the bad things I do take care of good people. And that can mean taking good care of bad people. Which, ambiguously, happens to be one helluva good and bad time. You see? Subjective.

“Morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, it’s morning, hooray!”

‘These guys.’ They always seem to find me wherever I move. They want me to get out of bed and start the performance. For as much as they talk I’m not very concerned. Because I know if they’re asked where I’m at, the best they can offer is this:

Beasts in the sky catch the eye while landing with aggression. Move opposite with benched approach, eleven your sense of direction.

Where blossoms the apples, the cherries and more, straighten your path to the city abhorred: An orient garden that flourished in past lies broken with traders that harvest in mass.

Make your way west, go cautious and slow. The constables here all itch for your blow. Now high tops a forest that’s taking you north — the smoke on this trail is not of import.

Scents of a baker are truly a treat, but dark-hour-fresh is risky in feat. The army wall will offer obsession — avoid it while bathing in salted confections.

A road to the hills changes its name, confusing a glance when made on the main. If flickering stars permit the advance, our avian brothers will guide you through land.

Wing a handshake that leads to another — avoiding the signs, the landmarks and numbers. His horse asleep afoots the path… park two blocks over and walk your ass back!

Yeah, they really can be a couple of fuckers.

Next: Licentious Intentions: A Shipwreck (the dirty mick) Series, No. 4

 

Worse than having nothing to say is too much to convey with no words.
A leftover cadence goes write down the line of stunting my growth with these spurts.
Their circular angles from platforms and pulpits are free to be purchased with angst,
But my leaving the branch of an empty paper is a riddle that’s rooted in vains.
This amateur prose is a boast I suppose of dichotomous-forming intent:
A rhyme intervention that’s mining a mind sure to be making no cents.
The most I can do is the least I distill while I’m drowning from drought in my fable.
I wish I could teach me to learn on my own when I’m willing all old and disabled.
I won’t accommodate critics who sell their dissuasions or make a heroic retreat.
Cuz my people enjoy these makeshift presentations I somehow have managed to feed.
Casting abstract is a mixture that sprouts multiples playing on words.
Orgasmic in act intermittent with tact and lavishly loved as a first.
This small progression is just an obsession from what I’ve been coming of late:
An article bastard that more or less flatters himself with a limerick make.
Politely obnoxious infecting subconscious I’m something like hoping a dream.
Or wishing a nightmare an unwanted dire of lively unsightly obscenes.
A choice not to choose might but chew on what’s rude and be smirking a bottle of grin,
Which I’m opined to love and in fact not above take a mend and then go it again!

11-7-19
Rando Mand Irving

Previous:  The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No.3

I’ve been here before, many times — in this situation, specifically.

Allowing her pink-painted synthetics to take such liberties reminds my pup-pups of busking for Lincolns.

Truest in form, safari in thong — she’s loving all my gyrations. Zebra print presenting the prey: delicious, in the eyes of a cougar.

Her physical prowess is intimidating. But being stalked in an office full of football memorabilia celebrating her as the League’s most efficient helmet crusher is what necessitates the elevated threat level.

I am aware of her hormonal imbalance, and she of my pheromones in all of their glory. Thus begins a delicate dance — one which allows me to take her down easy.

Her hands are soft for gorilla-large, but I’m against putting bandaids inside me. It’s imperative to play it cool — and I do — by casually suggesting the aggression dial down. “Easy, mama. Easy.”

Her snapping my crevice cape is completely expected, it’s her Shwarznegger impression that catches me off-guard. “Grrrr. Thou doth protest too much.”

Sound the alarms, and maintain their silence: It’s critical not to trigger the adrenaline of predators, especially those who’ve spent decades riddled with concussions. Maintaining my composure these next few moments becomes of critical importance.

If I can straddle-walk her chair backwards towards the bamboo thicket corner, I’ll be able to access a defensive vantage — one that comes from hiding in the bush.

My playbook-nibbling her cauliflower ear fails to neutralize the threat. Her claws continue to dig, and I find myself resorting to expert level negotiations while trying to tame her primitive instinct. “What say you let me get Maze Runner-lost in your beautiful labial labyrinth?”

With eyes twitching deep in her skull, she shakes her head, biting her lip. I’m in danger of losing my chastity.

Because this one is feral — and not afraid to show teeth — her seeing me panic is not an option. There is no time not to look sexy, I’ll need a moment to center my qi.

Concentrically circling my own nipples brings decades of extensive preparation to the forefront. My hips position into a stance less-known: She’s forced the unveiling of Grandfather-Clock.

The recall instantaneous, the skills well-honed, you’re now a witness to my handling a live situation. The dangers of this routine go unspoken between the seven of us left with knowledge of how to procure its perfect execution.

From Full-Metronome, I run my pointed finger down her frantic face, making a flawless line from her hairline to her chin — I once spent an entire summer breaking wild chickens with hypnotherapy.

I hop like a bunny backwards and maneuver a half-twist that lets me snap a look over my shoulder and transition my pointed finger into the universal gesture for “Nuh-Uh”.

Her beady eyes, traversing her beak, stare me down, crossed and succinct — I know the look of a savage bird when I see it. She’s far from cooperating. I’m making the call: She’s forced me to overdose her libido.

I attempt to go low, but my splits say no, so I jump with a kick and know that it’s perfect.

I land for a jiggle and then twerk like a doll — my prize-winning cakes looking tasty.

My Backpack Kid is flawless under pressure. There’s no doubt I’m properly fuckin’ murdering this routine.

A young boy’s innocence casts a glance back: Oops, I’ve bitten too hard on my pinky.

That she can withstand this treatment makes no sense, it’s as if her tolerance is bionic. I may be in danger of bottoming-out digging through my bag of tricks. I take a risk and escalate further.

Ten-and-two the ceiling, ten-and-two the floor. From between my legs and upside-down, her look is Considering, behind me.

Spreading my wings to lock her in, I’m trying to land this plane.

Oh, shit.

There’s no mistaking the venomous contact of an acrylic rattlesnaking your anus. It stings, but so does being caught like an amateur by a strike learned at Yellow Belt.

I’ll have time to heal my psyche later. Right now, it’ll take more than that to decommission the Champ.

Sensing the Feminine Mystique poised to strike again — and while notching another marginalisation derived from the work of Betty Friedan– I quick-release the cheeks and return my seat to a safe and upright position.

Inserting my mouth guard and cracking my knuckles, I hear the intent in her voice from behind me. “Would you like the bad news first, Mr. Zamboni?”

A slow turn into her coalmine eyes — there’s no trying to measure their depths. “You bet, sugar. What’s your game?”

“It seems you have an acute case of Benjamin Buttons.”

What the fuck does that mean?

I better play it safe.

Making myself appear as large as possible, I’m fully prepared to show her some pole. “And suppose I told you things aren’t always as they seem?” Ladies love a Copperfield.

“Oh, please. You’ve got the asshole of a twenty-year-old and we both know it.”

She’s got me there. I’ve had my cover blown by more than one A-list stalker coveting the stunt-hole of DiCaprio and Pitt.

From a three-point stance, in her seated position, her knuckles turn white preparing to charge.

I spin for a juke, but I’m back where I started — a curse of my perfect alignment. If it looks good once, it will look good twice — and there’s a chance that I’m making her dizzy.

It takes less than a minute for her to get caught in my orbit. And lost in my twirls, she’s seizuring frothy.

I fear I’ve led her too deep into the Land of Excessive Seduction, and opened the gates of Hell. I can’t bring her back without confronting her demons.

For the sixth time this week, I catholically cross my sweet pecks and thank the Pope I’m Vatican-trained in exorcism.

Any concern of the spiritual battle ahead is comforted by self-affirmation: Nothing a Grandmaster of Zumba can’t handle.

Step One: Know thy enemy.

Extend jazz hands. Reach for high noon. Sprinkle down the purple rain. Hard slap, right. Hard slap, left. Reverse. Now, finger-cross the forehead and make your demand. “Identify yourself, demon!”

“Virocana!”

It’s not unusual having them speaking in tongues.

Step Two: Hold firm.

Unsheathing my talisman, her mouth begins to foam. I start a four-count where her Third Eye should be and accompany that with, “I rebuke you in the name of the Lord!”

An arm contorts behind her searching for a heathen’s weapon. Having found a tote on the back of her chair, she reaches high, and in a shimmering flash, captures herself mid-deliverance, ducklips and all.

Before she can Insta, I retrieve the device. Six flashes and a short narrative later, I’ve huckleberried her vanity using the power of transference. But how do I Like my own post?

Step Three: Choose the playing field.

We can expect the djinn to make a request right…about…”CHOKE ME!”

The secret to winning a battle with condemnations is making them think you’ll negotiate. A proper haggle with demons or demigods is served with a smidge of flirtation: one that peaks their interest, helping them meet you halfway. It’s also important to make the case that I’m uncomfortable enjoying what comes next.

Coyly alluding to how hot it would be if her own phalanges were wringing her neck, I’m hoping for a sleeper-assist to make my job easier.

The philistine kindly obliges, and a little sweet-talk encourages keeping her hands where I can see them. “Is that all you got, nutsack?” Even while demonically possessed, a lady will appreciate your replacing gender-biased insults attentively.

She is squeezing harder, but dammit if she isn’t still breathing. With her vision blurred from lack of oxygen, a series of spins around her desk covers the discrete procurement of items: one leftover chicken burger, one watered-down cola, one-half a roll of masking tape.

I’m returned to sender, hydrated, ready. Wiping the remnants of crispy chicken off my face, and across hers, an ancient harbinger sings from behind her grotesquely protruding eyeballs, “FISHHOOK ME!”

I call and raise double. Now temporarily extending her sick and twisted smile, and still pretending we’re on the same team, she’s under the impression I’m folding.

“BEEF ME, GLENN!” Like a slumlord landlady desperately trying to contract an unsuspecting tenant into filling her vacant, unwanted cubby.

“Sorry, doll. I’m callin’ fowl.” I quickly mama-bird a large chunk of unchewed chicken sandwich past her finger-stretched lips. This will help keep her air obstructed.

When her hands shoot up, free from her throat, her watch informs on her pulse: Now pushing mass adrenaline! She’s about to come off of this chair powered like a rocket. Her thinking I’m caught off-guard should let me cinch the flying arm-bar, easy.

I seize the moment, locking it in. But the rest of future I modeled seconds ago arrives still under construction.

Her: Now standing.

Me: Hanging on the underside of her of arm.

Her: Performing a one-handed tracheotomy using a mechanical pencil.

Me: I wonder what Monte’s up to?

Step Four: Is there a Step Four?

Maintaining a centrifugal motion paced to that of a high-speed ceiling fan requires the power of positive thinking.

Observing in rapid rotation what I initially thought were awkwardly shifting color patterns, but quickly realized was the real-time evacuation of my bowels, I spot a picture on the desk I hadn’t seen before. Watching it fly past me time-and-time-again, I’m amazed to see Him in such a pretty wedding dress while standing next to this monstrosity.

So much about Waymon makes sense now.

Maybe I’ve been too hard on him? I can’t possibly imagine everything he’s been through. That picture looks fifteen years old. Factor-in I’m travelling at light speed, and I’ll bet he’s been stuck with this princess of a mammoth for at least as many decades as she has teeth. Maybe it’s time to make amends.

Timing it right, I release my grip, and find the hammer toss-cushion I’m seeking. Bamboo broken, some possibly inside me, I ignore the Filipino fighting sticks to freehand this match’s end.

Her sumo stance projects her move: a mistake you can’t make with professionals.

It pains me to do what comes next. I never thought I’d stoop so low.

A kick to the groin escapes my conscience and defuses her charge. Now stooping low, I begin reciting the verses most sacred: “Now I’ve…had…the time of my life…No, I’ve ne-ver felt this way before…” She’s tilting her head. Anticipating. “Yes, I swear..it’s the truth.” Her stupid smile tells me she’s buying this bullshit. “And I owe it all you…”

Abandoning the offensive position, her hands meet and make the platform supporting her chin. Behind her fluttering lashes, dilated pupils constrict, letting me know that she’s in there. Any moment now, she should meet me in the middle.

And she does. “…’Cause I’ve…had the time of my life…And I owe it all to you…”

Goose to Maverick: I’m locking her in!

Next move, the walk: slow and with grace. Meet to touch palms in the middle. Her foot forward, my foot back. She thrusts, I volt. Sweet parry. We pirouette to her right, there is one move left: making the space between us.

Stepping apart as far as we can, my eye contact tells her, “We’re a team. We’re in this together.” I give her the signal, the one that she knows: Come on babe, you and I got this.

Maverick to Goose: Roger that. She’s copying. READY.

Lucifer himself would fall victim to Swayze.

Fluttering across the space between, hitting the mark, a princess is lifted: I find it a shame — from my elevated position — having to transition so quickly from Dirty Dancing to Roadhouse.

The tape makes its second appearance, wrapping tightly around her dome before catching the fan overhead.

he’s sucked right up, eyes wide, smiling, arms fully extended, feet finding a rhythm.

Bless her heart, it’s an encore presentation.

Euphoric: That’s the look of a little-girl-turned-ballerina doing her first neck-suspended spin in front of a live audience, at a job that pays in checks — not singles. I thinking I’m tearing up. Oh, what a feeling — dancing on the ceiling.

Our song will be playing in heavy rotation until maintenance comes and cuts her down. She’s not going die. Not today. But only because I saved her.

That was almost too easy.

Now, if only I could remember what I needed from her office…

Next: The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No. 5