I Smell Esther Williams Read Online Free PDF Page A

word “sleep” in a trail? It’s wrong to think that every well-dressed chimp, every little-league shortstop, every four-foot lothario who steps off the escalator in Penn Station is a potential benefactor. But to describe how they hang themselves with their bow ties, wheezing into their dictaphones that one final valedictory letter … Ah! That you like. You’re a delicious elixir, and you occupy my thoughts endlessly.
    Is denver a real city or just your mother’s address? Part of you is like a feather, but are you a glyph in the snow that gives off steam like the shanghai delight restaurant which hunches in the sleet on splayed arthropodic limbs and breathes vapor? No, you are more like a holiday that one leases. I love to miss you. I force myself to. It’s like being tickled. And becoming helpless. It’s like slipping on soap in the shower and waking up in a broderick crawford movie with bright orange hair and running mascara. It’s like singing mexican army songs with a black checker caught in one’s throat. It’s like a dream that ends with you pounding on my back.
    At this distance, semaphore or pantomime, even hawaiian dancing would be completely indecipherable. The affidavits have been shredded. “We Are Closed” signs are everywhere, and every key has been swallowed. That cloud that is creased like an onionskin seems to denature the moonlight and it indelibly stains the water, and when your shadow falls in my eyes, it stings so badly that I find the secretions of my own mouth indigestible. You no longer look like a camel when you sleep.The sequence of presidents has been shuffled. The days of the week have been renamed. Our old brand of kerosene has been taken off the shelves. Our favorite programs have been cancelled. This is a glut of coincidences. And after all those months of “letting the pieces fall where they may,” of playing in traffic, of divinity school, of bribing cops and cleaning up after circus animals, frame by frame, this epic for insomniacs has worked itself through the terrain, and, finally, the rails have crossed and mark this spot.
    So here we are again. Crouched between a blade of grass and a bottle of gin. In a lair as black and warm as a nostril. And tonight, in a field of pollarded tree trunks, you’ll unhook my yellow rain slicker and measure my biceps with calipers.
    The sails are cold and palpable in the bent light, and so is the cosmonaut’s tube of chicken kiev, so is your jawbone, so is the plaster cast of my dick, so is your wrecked corvette, and our spines are curled like fishhooks and nestled in the sand, and the wind whispers vermouth over the bay.

THE TAO OF BEING WHITE
    I dated a lot of Esteé Lauder girls and was a monster to a few of them, until the police-state blossomed and fashionable girls from all echelons of demi-monde found their brains afloat in dishes of formaldehyde. I kept my figure up—which more often than not required surgery. And often the surgery was quite primitive. Bed of leaves as operating table, machete moving in moonlight, strange birds whooping, humidity rike sauna, grunting in lieu of Mantovani. Sometime edge of blade make ablation, sometime numinous human spirit itself excise excrescent wrinkled fresh.
    What if prick becomes so tiny after drinking radioactive milk from Japanese mother that one have to have social life, perdue, this way and that a’way? Screwing thick-thighed horse-fly in a vestibule of my lazaretto overlooking a burg and the burg’s water supply and overlooking the puddle of hairy turbid fly love-juice. (Here’s funny part—I cannot find fly asshole to plug with finger during fly orgasm.)
    If I take you into the sauna, little lover, you’ll die. “Take me!” the fly says in my ear, “Let me space out tonight.” Go down on me, I say, and it lights after a while on my teeny prick.
    I lay in a pasture of flags, and troops and their brainless slatterns lay with me. Soon, as the sun fell into the side-pocket of