She Who Will Not Be Named Here, or Anywhere, Never by Me

And so the water rippled with the rain dimpling the water where it’s always dark,
under the freeway circling through the city in its continual whoosh and muted roar.
I took her to the Poopdeck where Jabbo and Freddie played. She thought peanut shells
were a delicacy to step on to make the music crackle when we walked as they played.
Up the street, then, to the Penthouse. A clientele more to her liking, dressed like her
to be seen. I wanted to see her with nothing on. She kept saying, That may come in time.
I must say I did not believe her; the sands in my hourglass were caked with rain.
No need to even tell her name, I doubted we had a future, she may as well have been
sister to my need, or I cavalier for her company, a beacon to whet her appetite for me.
I took her to Hotel Congress, played clarinet, Paula sang, Tony on piano, Sanchez and
Clark as always. We went upstairs afterward. Why is this La Iglesia de La Puta?
She wanted to know my dearest secrets so she might tell me hers and that way love
us both for attempting the impossible, that at least. Paula was keeping her distance.
Cristina no longer implored me to share her bed, to fill her thighs with my sad seed.
I was remembering what had happened so far back now I could hardly find words
to embody thoughts that were more wish fulfillment than memory, not even dreams
if dreams were what you lived, as Cathleen said, once you die and go to heaven . . .
My platinum beauty from somewhere I had never been . . . how I loved to read to her.
I told her of the story I wrote not long after meeting Beasley down there. She thought
I had read it already. I chuckled. You’ve seen too much, I teased, to believe there’s more.

(3 April 2013: II)