Dragging Left Wing | Chapter V (day 948)


We had friends, sure. The kind of friends that went missing during the daylight hours and came out at night. Friends you’re not sure you’ve known sober. Perhaps this is toxicity… or fun.

We’d all get together at one of our pads. Getting all preparing at one of our dimly lit haunts. The ladies would all be scurrying around getting their ons-on. It was sub-culture at it’s finest. We knew it and cultivated it like Grama’s purple pansies. It reminded me of the ol’ Beatnik poets, or scenes of Almost Famous where they de-flowered William Miller. Those crazies who lived on the edge of poverty, half addicted to some narcotic the other half so close to the insane asylum it was the pure fabric of our well knit society that held them together.

It was interesting watching everybody in their own. Mindlessly wandering about their fantasies as that’d surface and take root in a discussion. We were a group of intellects, not withstanding the freeloading social surfers looking for their own stay too. We all have those, those curiously inclined but far to mind fucked to be able to withstand the rigors of an alternate lifestyle. Society is a tenacious mother who doesn’t let that stranglehold loose too often. Vice grips made of the finest steel a man can mine.


When you find yourself in these kind of situations, it’s easy to trace back memories to circumstances: naked and alluring. It’s a smile and a random comment. A shared drink. What started as a gentle touch on the shoulder and a look so dangerous it ate magic and cast spells. A perspiring beer bottle. Cowboy boots. Tweed jackets with patches on the elbow and thick rimmed glasses that poked out the sides.

It was love and magnetic, like a riveting fiction steeped in sex scenes and pool hall billiards and whiskey shots and a love story.

And I was a sucker.


This isn’t a competition. This isn’t a battle for your love. This is an experience that we’re on together, holding hands, loving, whispering, walking, and waltzing through the evening’s twilight music rustling out through the brown wooden speakers of the 33 spinning wheels.

I corked my own bottle, I dusted off my own boots, I held the door for you. This was me, it was never my attempt to woo you, to brainwash you into me. At least not fully. Of course it’s hard for me to not try my best to cast my spells, in the end. I knew my spells were commingling with yours though. All the difference.


In the evenings we’d go for walks along the sombre street sidewalks, arm in arm with unconsciously matched steps; a slow pace. Slow dance in the living room with dirty indy music holding us close.

The floors were old parquet flooring; only a few loose segments to mind. We’d navigate the few squeaky spots with delicate care and embrace.

It’s funny how intimate relationships are always stifled in public. Soft becomes hard. Release become manicured. But the saunter always exists, the presence is constant. Julie had a swagger cultivated entirely. So did the rest of the gang, the lousy group of modern beatniks, loveless bastards, free floating radicals, my family of grandeurs I’d so come to call by love.

[note: to read full epic follow dragging left wing]

Dragging Left Wing | Chapter IV (day 940)


We were like kids, all day long sleeping around in nothing but our underwear and blankets that twisted and rumpled us into our own magic land of wanderlust. Between our carnal moments of pure passion I’d feed her citrus fruits that would sting the sin off our tongues. There was no Western movie script office, no bills pulling at our wallets, no jealousy, no wandering, no eager eyes or the next best thing. We did complete each other.

We were hustlers and lovers. Not gangsters. We didn’t thump our rap in our chrome rimmed mobiles, we didn’t include bling in our vocabulary. We were class that believed in perfumes, curls, a kimono, shoes that announced ones arrival, low light, martinis.

In the evening she’d sit around reading from books like Understanding Witchcraft, Seduction, How to Love a Man, and Being a Proper Housewife. We’re talking stuff straight from prohibition era, when a suit and tie was what real men wore to the bar, not ripped up jeans and a backwards hat.

From time to time she’d get up and stretch the largest stretch I’ve ever seen. She was a Yogini, so it was desire to watch her bend as she did. Her breath would catch with mine and I’d flow with her qi. Mostly I think she was weaving her spells she’d just read about, leading me into a place I really didn’t mind being at. She’d eye me, and flip me that focused kind of smile.

‘Service with a smile’ was her favorite saying. She’d come back into the bedroom with a plate full of some delicacy she had just concocted and beam with those words written on her mouth. I would always laugh, eager to see what my next feeding would entail. Never let down.


She would leave that bed when it was her time to work. It was always a rush because we’d both hold off until the very last minute to get ready, keeping our naked skin touching that so pleased us both.

She was one fine specimen of the female variety. I would crawl up and down just at the very thought of her being. I would coo softly when I’d get to hold onto her hips. It was hard for me to tell whether it was this very act or another more carnal act that pleased me so. The pure thought of it sends my heart into emotional fluttering. Often I’d watch her dancing around the room with transparent fabrics lightly floating around her as she moved [for me].


My favorite time of season was the autumn. The time of season when the fresh bright greens and floral yellows and purples and reds would fade away into earthy tones of death and decay. I’m not sadistic; it’s a time of connection to life and death. Pure. The anticipation of winter’s cold, the preparation for warmer clothes. Closing the windows and sweeping the sidewalk and laying bare all trees that stand in mother natures way. A transition we have no control over. Serenity.

Julia would pull out her old mukluks to wear around the bare wooden floors of the apartment. With these and her panties on I could hardly stop myself from enveloping her. Exploding with a passion aching to jump out of my skin and hunger for more. She knew this, and would smile uncontrollably when she knew this was where I was at. I never left her wondering, she had asked me not to.

Do you know what it’s like to have an unbridled passionate outlet, matched ebb and flow for carnal desires?

[note: to read full epic follow dragging left wing]

Dragging Left Wing | Chapter III (day 939)


I liked to call her Julia, mostly because it was a name I’d heard long ago in a black and white movie based in Paris that was laid so thick with romance even the reel to reel it flicked upon was heavy of heart. She always laughed and smiled like she didn’t know what I was referencing, nor did she attempt to recognize the pure emotion I was laying thickly about the dense air.

She knew my routine: a thick coffee I could eat with a spoon, a medium sized side-dish of whiskey. Just to get the gears oiled. My pen flowed more freely with the coffee; whiskey was for my tongue. Julie liked my charm.


I never had errands about town like the rest of them mobsters and cowboys had. Like Clint Eastwood who always had to saunter across town to get a shave and a bath, and of course to shoot a few men who didn’t like the way he looked. I romanced about it, but it was never required. Not even once. It wasn’t that I was packing, but still, my cowboy boots had the romantic feeling required for such a scene, my pants were as dusty as Clint’s ever were.

I always had a lover waiting for me though. That much I did have in common. The lovers were magnetic at the worst of times. I had that sort of charm, and I hung around the right places – possibly by design. I had that loose charm and fresh stubble that fit the part. Walking stereotype.


She would always come over and turn a chair backwards to chat with me a while; the rest of the joint fully satisfied. I knew she eyed up that seat the minute I walked into the joint. You could tell with these kind of girls. That nervous chatter about their bottom lip as they sat in casual cool. I always wanted to ask her if there was something more on her mind, but always told myself this dusty saloon wasn’t the place. My mind was always elsewhere anyways. I knew what I wanted.

I’d make up little scenes as my eyes would get distracted by a noise out of place. I’d watch as drunken fools would fiddle around in a stupor with their own thoughts and sadness. I’d watch as young couples would come in feeling the same romance I’d once felt in such an intimate place, sitting deep within the booths. I’d watch as businessmen would walk in with out of town clients looking for something to loosen the tie (and no doubt signature). I’d lose myself in their little romances. I’d watch them as they made little touches and laugh at small talk jokes. I always felt that my deep soul was much more conscious than theirs, staring out from the beaten corners of my favorite haunt, walnut filling my soul with history.

[note: to read full epic follow dragging left wing]

Dragging Left Wing | Chapter II (day 923)


Ritual is what makes us so easy to perceive. But she pulled me away from what had always been designed; a teacher of thought and logic, of expression, of impression on my mind. But she was young and full of piss which drove me up the wall. After-all, what was I but a callused sitting stone washing away in the early light of a new winters day. My teeth were clinched and dragging along my feet I made my way up the paisley covered silk pressed firmly on the wall.

[I didn’t mind that she had taken over the top drawer of my burgundy chest of drawers, I didn’t mind that I found her panty-hose draped about my table lamps and the backs of my chairs. In fact, it added to my manliness, it fit right in with my Winchester typewriter – half filled with mumblings I had managed to emit amidst the booze and fucking and freezing air that curled my lungs up into a gait so tight I forced my thoughts to relax the fingers on my mind]

But she was there, full naked visage to luxuriate my mind into a casual saunter amongst peacock feathers, top hats, rhinestones, and suits with chain watches and glittering eyes with too much joviality. I had no choice in this matter, not like I cared one damn bit about the mess she enjoyed making of my bed. She, like I, was full of eyes that pulsed – praying for something she didn’t know how to verbalize, a feeling she didn’t know how to mentalize, a desire she didn’t know how to materialize. Her eyes searched the bottom of empty tumblers, her eyes found the cobwebs reaching out for life, her eyes danced with the streams of light that flickered through the room catching elements of history that spread like the lost ghosts echoing through our minds.

We dove into our fury like lovers we’d always wanted to be. We pushed those warning thoughts to the backs of our minds so we could hardly lay trace casual thoughts that appeared on our tongues. Life was good like this, it lacked the severity of the dying grid that forced mothers to sell their children for some sweet pudding and a souvenir to take home and place so thoughtfully on the pathetic mantle of desire’s dream. Neither of us was following this path, nor ever dreamed we would, for it was a withering dream fed by fat pockets, a machine that mimic’d zoo-keepers begging city council for more tax money to feed the wild and elusive buffalo they hunted for pass-time with foreign dignitaries.


I crawled out from that room and tip-toed down the wooden hallway laid flat with fading rose carpet that left spaces between it’s dying glory and that crushing 90 degrees up. Striped wall paper marked unevenly by portraits of bygone entrepreneurs.

[this is what we had taken to calling those devils who thought nothing of selling their souls for profit, that crude and lewd crowd that scantilized fashions and sourced the inner most pleasures of human soul. Even animals treasured the pure delight and unrelenting pursuit this basket-case crowd so freely expressed]

From the roof hung cob-webbed chandeliers bought at the nickel-and-dime store half a block away. “They look good,” is all we could say every time we traced these steps, giggling to ourselves. We didn’t care, our world didn’t depend upon such trivial matters of the outside world, of such trivialities so coveted by the people we laughed ourselves to sleep about. Gutteral expressions that splashed around the ivory colored ceramics.

I thought deeply about the sound of my wooden healed shoes echoing around my mind’s voice, shifting glances and kindling old romances while strutting with poise. I winked and nodded back to the gaping voids, the children of my finesse. I am neatly hand drawn, sculpted with imagination, created with the artful eye that dares to draw outside the lines.

[but oh, I thought about the land I came from. The cold street corners with auto-mo-biles and two-bit barber-inos, with fancy ladies strutting on knockoff stilettos practicing their how-ya-doin looks. Nostalgia is a soft sword when it piques the tendons of your heart]


I never knew to meet her, but I always met her there. I always stopped and stared and waited until she could find me through the haze. She knew it too – she confessed one intimate night – all smiles and flutters and oh-yes-it’s-him stares. I liked those moments, letting it sink in, letting the leaves fall to the ground after upsetting them in air. Without fail, a smile the spread into a softly blown kiss so thick I could breathe it in and heavily let it curse through my veins. This was the tingly moments I came to love and learn.

I found casually my sorted seat, to file away my thoughts. A square-topped desk with hash marks set deep within its long history as a peacemaker, a romance kindler, an easy ledge upon which to sit as orders filled the air. It wasn’t so big that I could harbor much company and still keep my affairs in order, so luckily I carried my leather bound estate about to sort up my rapport – so easily spread about the square that I’d begun to call my post.

[visitors were few in such an office – as much as my notoriety was known – though they did come and disturb my thought in the heat of its best battles. The drunken fools who’d had too much were often such throwers of folly, but hardly I, who’d set up here, could curse them what they’d bear]

[note: to read full epic follow dragging left wing]

Dragging Left Wing | Chapter I (day 922)


[and from here I crawled out into hands of memories, settling my mind on the truth machine that worked, grinding and sharing my thoughts with light I didn’t want to see]

I was callused from pains palm, a short smile that curtseyed like a smart little girl auditioning for the lead in this years high school musical. But my fever wasn’t juvenile. My fever had the whiskers of a great old wool-cardigan-wearing bespectacled grey-haired rocking-chair blues man. Stretching in the dark rays of a smoke filled saloon.

[I always wonder what happened in those old saloons as dusty rovers would sit amongst dirty city folk with nothing but sincere silence to fold the spaces between then and now]

Tonight bid me no exception. My hands were cold and the condensation stared at me through grace’s old left shoe; the mark of a vain attempt to pluralize a bygone romantic history with dots dotting and buzzards and cowboys shouting yippy-yi-kai-yai. Yippy-mother-fucking-kai-yai. It echoed through my mind and around the rim and stirred the bricks soaking in the toxic tumbler tonic.


Footsteps echoed on my heart’s inner recesses [those dark spaces with lifelines directly connecting my dick to my brain], and I looked up to see what stretched before my eyes towards the skies and held my breath as I began to accept the steps I did not control, nor did I expect to know for I was but a stranger.

[what life that I did live, galloping here and there in search of reason and mystery and a place to eat my dinner with warm socks and a soft hearted woman wearing a checkered apron, and kids filling up the silent spaces that ran around the walls and raw vegetables]

[did I behold the majesty that I had so long sought?]

Flush faced and affectionately asking if she could be the one to dangle my sorrows in front of the dogs chops, to mince that meat so delicately a surgeons needle would hardly Frankenstein this wanton heart of mine. Who was I to let this poor damosel tarry there like a bird on a wire? Hardly a minute the mood I wade in expresses such distaste, so I stood to my full height, smiled my deepest smile [yet did I know the deepest sorrow spoken from mine eyes], and bid the dark haired blood-hound to sit with me a while.


Here I was, a confident chap, merely seeking deep within – wallowing if you will – to no particular evil that could readily dance upon my tainted tongue. But such a foe that it could be was easily scared away, for in it’s terror – which it could see – was all that met the mind. But not, just see! Oh lordy me! It was more than my racing heart could ever manage to conjure. With those deep eyes, so wild and high, so eager for the punchline. Where my first glance had hastily missed, my senses soon repaired, it was aroma – so sincere – it took me by surprise; I was just some sullen eyes, awaiting times dear romantic fate.

[what focused on my brain just then was recounted by all men; so vivid was this memory it nearly knocked me back, for I was not some phony fiend, some mocking jack disgrace. I held with me a rabbits foot, a good luck charm to pace my heart and keep it here in check, to keep my mind from going aloof awaiting this as future]

Could you feel me as I felt you, could you smell me as I smelled your soul come wafting to my heart? Did you accept, nay, did you propose this gravity as much as I had willed it so? Did your soul reach out and mingle now with my strings reaching towards your being sitting there eloquently?

[and with this I lost the senses of my reason and logic. I lost my ability to recount my tales, and verbs I sling so well. I lost my thoughts that had carried me to this smoke filled saloon]

[note: to read full epic follow dragging left wing]