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For your average guy living a good and happy life there is little better than stripping off to lie down hard and heavy on a golden beach; but one must be careful laying oneself down, for the hotter the beach, the hotter the burn if one doesn't lift off in time to call it fun had and done. You come, you go; life is great. Why get burned?
Off the beach one might float on crisp dark waves, clinging to lingering memories of a golden beach, wondering, "Where's it all gone?" as if the whole box of a golden beach were a puff of thin grey smoke passing on the breeze of a hot tropical day in the evergreen jungle, little left but salty yellow sweat stains and maybe a gaudy blue tattoo fading as it sprawls over ever ageing skin that cracks and blemishes with the passing years.
Hey, I know this guy who knows this girl who says she's a friend of an acquaintance of mine. We ain't so close, the lot of us. Me, I'm just passing through, and some of the others are long gone even now. No, I won't be here long. And gone, the memories will fade, as too the meaning of the moment, the point, the needle-sharp point of pain that won't even leave a mark, memories blue of a golden, golden beach.
This guy I know who knows this girl who knows this girl I sort of know knows a girl I am sort of mad about who doesn't have a clue and wouldn't care. So I don't care, taking care to avoid her to avoid my temporary failings as a man. I'm hot for this girl who's got it all and doesn't want anything more that a man with almost nothing could give her. I have a backpack! It is not only red, it is also black. My pack is stuffed with untyped manuscripts and brass knuckles, a leather whip and a steel spring-loaded baton. I have a razor garrote and a fine machete. I have some underwear and an extra pair of pants. I have a fancy dress-up shirt and a tie of lovely silk; it's crimson. I have a hunting knife and a sewing kit because violence and the ordinary brutalities of living require needlecraft of the man who must attend to blue, to red and yellow, to gangrene and black.
On the morning of 6 October 2012 the subject awoke at 6:00 after four hours of fitful sleep during which he repeatedly disturbed the sleep of other residents with a continuous outporing of moans and curses, particularly, "Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ," till someone shook him and begged him to stop. The subject claims he is not religious. The subject does have a documented history of moaning and cursing in his sleep. He claims to be troubled by this condition, but he makes no effort to deal with it. He dwells; and his dwelling place shall be, shall be.
Later, now that I have seen the girl with everything and I know she doesn't want anything even if I could give her everything else, I will have everything myself, and my dwelling place shall be.
I know this girl who know this guy I know. This girl is golden, and she is too hot not to notice. This guy I know, he notices. This girl I know, she makes temporary tattoos on traveling kids passing through. She makes a bit of cash at it, day by day at night in the park at the Plaza. She makes a bit, a tit, a bit from this guy I know who buys her ice cream, a soda, an hour at the cybercafe for Face Book, a pair of plastic sunglasses that caught her fancy, a meal at a sidewalk stand, a ribbon, a bow. Oh, she's poor. She has so little. And maybe her father raped her a lot. Really, poor girl, she's poor and maybe her father raped her an awful lot. Really, poor girl, she's poor, just an empty box of some golden beach.
"It'll only last a week or two." Your tattoo. It fades, it goes away. It's not like you have to live with it all the days of your life and you can never rid yourself of it no matter how much you dream of escaping it. It doesn't last, not even a memory of it lasting. A tick, a trick, a trickle, a prick. A little, a bit, a bite.
She's fat, this hot girl is, and she gets down on her knees in front of you and she grabs your legs and she goes to work on you and leaves her mark. It's only a couple of dollars and you look so pretty, and you're my real friend I like so much that I have to hug you every time we meet, and kiss each other's cheeks because we are love itself in a loveless world of cruel people who don't love us like we love each other. We are love.
Uh huh. But frankly, I got tired of it, and I got sick of her. I tired of making her come to me in the park and pretend she loves me like a long lost friend while I pinched her nipples and stuck my finger up her butt. She had to smile even then or come across as bitchy rather than the loving friend of all she has to pretend to be to make a living among the lonely. She's so phony she put up with it all to maintain the charade that she's anyone's friend. Even that was not enough because it didn't take long for others to sense her real self.
Now, I admit that when I saw the crease in her suit pants it sent a tingle up my leg and I thought, this is a man I want to be our president, the smartest man since Thomas Jefferson. But I've seen it all before and all I really wanted to do was get her on the roof top to tie her up and photograph her with her panties in her mouth. I didn't do that. I didn't do that because I could have.
A large number of Americans are going to vote for Obama soon. They are the same people who would be taken in by the girl I know here. She'd hustle them for cheap shit, like Obama hustles now for more. But there is no qualitative difference between them. I am sick of them all. They aren't even worth humiliating. They like it when they meet a man like me. I get sick of them. I save my whip and chains for wild packs of dogs who seriously attack me. I'm not even going to piss on cheap shit hustlers like Obama. They ain't no friends of mine. I don't need a golden beach, don't need no blue tattoo, don't need no temporary low pimpette. I know what I need, and she's here right now, the girl who has everything and doesn't need me at all. That's just fine. She is absolutely real. My dwelling place shall be, shall be.
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