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By Misti Date: 2005 Oct 02 Comment on this Work [[2005.10.02.01.00.3369]] |
| A writer who is madly in love with herself (the best writers are in love with life and never forget they are only a minute part of the carnival)writes about her soul mate, her match. How well they meld. They even look alike, she and her man. Sounds icky to me. Incestuous. I don't want to fuck my twin. My man looks nothing like me. In addition to the obvious differences, there is the matter of his German-Irish blood and my wild gypsy all over the fucking map blood. My man has big strong features and dark intense eyes that swallow me whole. I'm his shy crazy dark haired mutable eyed girl. I've run from him twice and run back to him twice. I can't stay away. To grab a cliche 'cause god it's true, the sun rises and sets with that man. The world is not done with us yet. We are a ghetto team. We are the Oakland Raiders. He's the drummer who lived on potatoes and off rich girlfriends. I'm the writer with a pacifier in my mouth fixated on the mirror 'cause I'm shallow and still trying to make my acquaintance after three decades of embarrassment. We are not twins. We are polar opposites astrologically but karmically we're both kelly green. He has street smarts. He asks me how to spell certain words. I try to take his lead and be friendly to the people I meet each day in the hood. I fail. My fuck you for looking at me scowl is fixed, I'm afraid. I don't make small talk. I laugh too loud in hospitals until the nurses close the door. I take gifts from people. I say thank you and return to my Bukowski book. There are no horses to bet on. Ours is not a longshot. |