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LOVE CUTS YOU TO THE WHITE MEAT SHOWS AS RAW A RUSTY STRAIGHT RAZORS KISS
We are digging through the storage across from Mockingbird station looking for our notebooks, finally ready to submit. Clawing our way through to the fleshy morsels of our sorrows. We find some of your notebooks finally, but mine are still in there somewhere and I just don’t think I’m up to digging around in the July heat gray shirt dark and heavy with Texas sweat and summer time funk. Her girlfriend is sick and I’m worried about her now, how ironically awkward it is, my concern for my wife’s new lover. I’ll find my note books next time. Let’s lock up and find something cool to drink. I am thinking of a Gatorade or a Monster or 40 oz and a pack a squares. Neither one of us cries for the first time. At the Star Bucks on the corner of Mockingbird and Preston you pull out your plastic to pay for my coffee, lemon cake and a Panzzini you picked out for me. I look too thin you say. Your girl pulls out her plastic and prays for everyone. We are learning to be gentle to one another and we all still love each other now more than we ever did before, we see each other now truly wishing the other happiness that eluded us while we together. Her face is red from the heat and Are you wearing sunscreen? I’m not in the sun. In her girls car now we listen to the radio a Nina Simone cover of something sad and bewtiful I have it on my youtube playlist...I don’t mention this in the car. We are talking easily about the writers and artist that we know around the city and the writers around the country and the world that we are excited about reading . We smile easily now as we laugh and talk as she drives down Mockingbird her girl entertains us with a story about the bottom of a bottle of crown and barefoot on the stage cocaine titty pussy poems having forgotten the words to the absolute cunt of the poem. We discuss our own projects, they’ll read together in November she tells me and I tell her that I already know I Goggled her yesterday...again. I ask about her new mag she’ working on online and she talks about her ideas for art and articles and reads and lunatic ravings she planning to unleash on the web. 'Let It Bleed' and I ask if she had read it and of course she hadn’t...I’ll forget to give her the copy I have later as I look for some more of her poems at the apartment when they drop me off. We talk of sex and drugs and poetry as we drink our cameral lattes and vinti cameral macchiato and plastic bottles of water. Tonight maybe she’ writing too, instead of crying in her lovers arms. We mourn the death of our beloved a little less each day as we bleed out our memories silent as a sliced wrist in a bathtub filled with warm red water. Blood trails cool on linoleum tiles so crimson so bright you can see it florescent in the electric poverty of light. Still, a year later not a day passes when one or the other is not on the verge of extinction. Worn-out heart wearied with the illusions of eternity in an empty air of broken promises feeding on the parasitic worms that are our secret fears I am sitting in the blackness a sentinel of sorrows waiting to hear the beloved breathe my name so that I may finally answer her like an atheist prayer. Hmmmm, they have lemon cake.
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Joey Darrell Cloudy is one of the Publishers and Assistant Editor in Chief and co-Founder of Death List Five (voice of the lunatic fringe), an arts and literary magazine. He also sits on the board, as a figure head, as one of the founders of Project 108 Productions. A non-profit dedicated to promoting artistic integrity and serving as an interface between the somnambulistic public and those clinging onto the frayed edges of the typewriters ribbon. Tom Cat Press was formed in 2002 to publish his first book of poetry Howl 18 poems for Allen Ginsberg. He has just completed his first novel titled Tramp. A libertine adventure of sex and drugs and poetry in that order, set in Dallas ‘historic Deep Ellum at the beginning of the millennium. He is currently completing the Death List Five anthology while compiling his poems into several books of poetry (tentatively titled; On Women, Pretty Words That Mean Nothing, It’s Complicated, Party In My Mouth, Watermelons, White Women and Cadillac’s and Poetry Ain’t Pretty). His poetry and short stories have disappeared in the literary journals; Fatfizz, Mad Swirl and Death List Five. He blogs in heavenly anonymity under the irony dripping moniker TAFKATPOD (The Artiest Formally Known As The Prince Of Darkness). He has won no literary awards, entered no slam competitions and never completed College. He lives to write in Dallas, Tx. I knew she loved me when she had my name tattooed on her soul.
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