It was all Sapphic literature and hot chips, the hotter the better, no lime for cut, a hint of cheese, the kind of detritus that stains the fingers: capsaicin.
I had a line through the middle of my brain, dividing it into "hemispheres", it was like the line her underwear formed across her health, just north of Las Vegas, above the lake, approaching the hills.
A crease that would disappear over time, as in her case, lying nude in a rented room, or myself, brain smoothing over with age and lack of use, to just take her the very moment the thought came to me, with no preconceived notions, no weight of expectations or the like.
I could trace her panty lines around her form like the satellites looked at the Great Wall from space, or the burning Twin Towers in 2001; I could trace it, like the history of lakes written by men like Herodotus, lakes that don't exist and leave no trace in archaeology, lakes and tombs, labyrinthine things, my hand across her belly with the pinkie finger seated gently in her belly button.
I had written of Sappho, somewhere, and I had died a thousand times in my mind.
As was said, that made me a coward, and in my mind I had painted the world over in my own rotten blood.
It was as the bard said, "a coward dies a million deaths", so I was the Great Coward to cause, but imminently brave without reason, willing to jump from the bridge just for the sake of telling the tale later.
People would think she felt something dear, if she wiped her eyes, the pepper gore: the capsaicin making tears come to her eyes, and they would think they owned her, heart like a wild pony, a mustang along the southern frontage spitting at any gaucho or caballero that came near, spitting even on rattlesnakes and outstretch cactus palms.
Somehow in all that, KT Ber, I was getting older, becoming perhaps, more normal in some respects, more mutant in other respects, but certainly more rare. I could, rarified, come to the fold, for every fold has its oddball, and as I look around, I see the paradigm much differently, that we are all numbered, all odd when its given fair airing; all uniques somehow, not like Confuseus taught, or even Christ or Lucius Seneca, "nothing that is uncommon to man" as if all were "common to man", a profound simplicity that yet defies understanding.
"Weiner", I say KT. Come with Uncle and hear Angel Trumpets and Devil Trombones.
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