Funkier than a Mosquito's Tweeter

At the tip of my tongue I feel a terribly romantic notion that life as I want it would be some sort of reveling: to wake up in the morning guiltless, with no conclusions, pretexts, misconceptions, prejudices, and a glass of orange juice instead of coffee.

Life, as I’d want it, would exist within the perimeters of bliss: to revel in my lust and love, to never have to make excuses or pay a bill, eat fennel or comb my hair after I’ve been driving with the windows down. I’d never have to laugh because I am supposed to. My daughter would never shit on the floor and paint the walls with it. I would never work in a bar or a restaurant or around food and drink, unless my job was to participate in the eating and drinking of it all. I would be open-minded. I would love back hair, egos, bad sex, vanity, and rich fuckers.

Life, as I’d want it, would be simple and glorious. I would sleep for days.

Relationships are fickle and I am always edgy, but no one knows. I once dated a guy that told me reading reduced people to assholes and that my nail polish would come off when I took a shower. Sometimes.

I once dated a guy that told me I look like Iggy Pop naked. Perhaps.

My family has been referred to as white trash, as porch monkeys. My older sister once ran away with a butcher knife. People thought she was crazy. She is. But that’s not the point.

We used to always live in trailer-parks. We once lived in a trailer-park in Jacksonville, Florida. Hurricanes happened often. Folk in Maryland have a hard time understanding the logic of this. Understand.

Life, as it is, makes me out to be a hypocrite. I want to be something I am not. I want to love people in spite of themselves. I want to wear my heart on my sleeve. Nina Simone has a song, “Funkier than a Mosquito’s Tweeter.” That is my life. That is our lives. It is a rat race. A place where fuckers hate to get fucked and lovers hate to be loved.

I hate to hate. I love to fuck. I love to love and be loved. But sometimes life isn’t that simple. Simple and glorious?

Life as I’d want it would be without demons in everyone’s closet. There would be action without war. Guinivere wouldn’t dream about sharks.

War? You don’t even know, said Rory on Christmas Eve. He was stuck in Faluga, while Carl was getting court marshaled for shooting some guy in the face. Happy Holidays.

Life, as I’d want it, would be a bowl of peaches, a large chocolate cake, a lack of consequence, and a lack for the necessity of consequence. There would be peace, sincerity, knowledge, truth, and rest. I would revel in bliss.