a frosted glass strawberry pendant with gold seeds dangling over my head, the hair-stylist's fingers tracing heavy circles on my scalp and she floats above strawberry-blonde, bathing and singing sweetly to the music; a chasm of a dream opens and she leans while my eyes are closed and kisses me fingers tangled in my hair knowing it with more grace and skill than i who grew but cannot tend it
i always have these strange dreams of women who are paid to touch and groom,
and end up feeling vaguely like a john
i will be able to get out of bed soon, now almost one,
someone in my building is cooking something that smells so good and it makes the gray outside somehow less menacing
what a frenzy inside, always
feeling like a little poison one, a dis-ease bringer,
begging
2 comments:
as one who tends and grooms, though for little compensation, i must say: do not feel like a john! There is less a feeling of prostitution about it, I think, and more so one of your personal mechanic. The guy you take your car to, consistently or not, appreciates the opportunity to work directly on things understood with familiar tools. To be sure there a clunkers, maybe even hoopties perhaps not worth the effort, but there are also fine automobiles which merely need tires rotated, nicks lovingly buffed.
This analogy brought to you by my need to remember to book an appointment to have my exhaust looked at tomorrow.
while falling asleep the other night i thought of ways that i had failed you. in not being as gentle or understanding as i could have been, not paying enough attention to the you in there, not tending as friends tend. and i was very glad for cats on the steps to be at least one marker of that care. here is not so much apology as taking note and telling. tending is sometimes.. too much (?) i realized. i know you know. but there will always be more happenings.
and we are all okay.
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